Difficult Circumstances
by daisyham8
Summary: Malfoy is cursed with lycanthropy as the world begins to fall apart around him. He is given the opportunity to start anew after the Final Battle in the most unlikely of circumstances. DM/CW, slash
1. Prologue

**How They Wished it Could Have Happened**

The Dark Lord was defeated, simple as that. Malfoy would have taken the potion, seen him the next day, given him a perfunctory glare, and everything would have been fine. Life would have gone on. Or perhaps Malfoy would have never been cursed, his family would have remained as sane as they could manage, the Dark Lord would have been defeated, and Malfoy would still have glared at him, never looking back. Life would have been perfect. Or maybe the Dark Lord never came back; maybe Potter would have killed him for good that Halloween night. Malfoy might not have ever even met him. Or perhaps the Dark Lord never existed. Perhaps magic never even existed. Maybe they could be Muggles and would meet one day, on a street, in a bookstore, or at a party, fall in love, and have a normal life together.

But that's not how it happened.


	2. Ginny

**I. Ginny**

Ginny watched as Malfoy woke up, his eyes opening slowly. Most of Ginny's family, professors McGonagall and Flitwick, and Malfoy's parents were also present. Percy and Bill were lying in the Hospital Wing, recovering from injuries due to the battle. Percy had a severely broken arm and Bill had spell damage; nothing Poppy Pomfrey couldn't fix within a few days.

Draco Malfoy had been brought in at dawn, unconscious, wrapped in a cloak, his arms and legs laced with gashes. His mouth was stained red.

They had discovered this hidden part of Malfoy that evening, as the moon began to rise. There was a crew of people outside, clearing up as much of the damage as possible from the grounds. The Malfoys were mandated to help the crew, partially to humiliate them, no doubt. Only Narcissa had her wand; Lucius' had been destroyed and Harry refused to give Draco's back until further notice. Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Neville were laughing timidly, joking about Neville's master swordsmanship and Neville and Ginny making little teasing jabs at Hermione and Ron's hand-holding. Ginny was a bit jealous; she hadn't seen Harry for nearly a day, but there would certainly be time for that later. Suddenly, she heard a strange noise; low, ragged breathing. Ginny and Neville looked for the source, and Ron and Hermione turned quickly. They looked towards the Malfoys; the breathing had become louder, almost a low shout. Lucius and Narcissa were looking panicked, clutching a crouching, hunched Draco, speaking to him almost in hysterics. It was darker out now, the sun almost completely set. Impulsively, Ginny looked towards the sky, and a sudden realization washed over her, leaving her terrified: it was the full moon. Her suspicions about the reason for Draco's moaning were confirmed when she heard the elder Malfoys yelling for people to run for the castle, that he hadn't taken his potion.

Neville grabbed Ginny's hand and pulled her to the front doors of the castle, running. The two dozen or so other people who were also outside rushed into the entrance hall, closing the door and barricading themselves behind it. People were panting and silent, when they all heard a inhuman growl erupt from the just outside. Narcissa Malfoy slumped against a wall and began to cry, and Lucius tried to comfort her, doing a poor job as he was quite distraught himself.

"What happened?" cried Professor McGonagall, who had been at the top of the grand stairway, repairing a chandelier. There was distress in her voice as she scanned the group of wheezing, worried people below.

"It's Draco," said Lucius loudly, his voice quavering. "He forgot the W-Wolfsbane." Narcissa let out a small sob and clutched her husband's hand. McGonagall's face twisted with concern.

"It's all right," she said calmly, descending the stairs towards the couple. "We've had werewolves here before. He'll run around all night, certainly, but he'll be fine come morning. Just a bid tired, is all." She patted Lucius' shoulder timidly, and turned to go back to setting the castle right again.

The crowd glanced at the distressed couple, and then slowly dispersed, sending curious glances at the Malfoys before leaving. A long, low howl sounded outside, and Narcissa let out a wail. Ginny looked at her brother and Hermione, raising her eyebrows. The three of them and Neville retreated to a small, empty room, sitting themselves on top of dusty old desks.

"_Malfoy_," said Ron in disbelief, looking at no one in particular. "A werewolf. He's a _werewolf_."

"Apparently," said Hermione, biting her bottom lip. "I wonder how long he's been one. Can't have been long, or else we would have noticed."

"He _has_ been acting funny all year, now that I think about it," said Neville slowly, scratching his chin. "Sick and all. I just assumed it was because of all this war business going on. But I guess it was because…" he left the end in the air, floating through the room, filling the spaces between them.

"Why?" asked Ginny quietly. "Why would a Death Eater's son be bitten? I thought Greyback had most the werewolves under control? And Greyback was working for You-Know-Who…"

Hermione nodded. "You're right. I could understand if it was a rogue werewolf that did it, but how would it get close enough to Malfoy's home to even bite him? He was _sure_ to be well-protected. It just doesn't add up."

Ginny agreed with her. The Malfoys lived in a huge manor; rumor was that it was the headquarters of the Death Eaters, even You-Know-Who himself. It was sure to be heavily warded against anything that could potentially harm its occupants. But if that was so, how on earth had Draco Malfoy been bitten? And, perhaps more importantly, _why?_

………………………….

Something had gone wrong. Ginny heard the rumors from someone, though she couldn't remember who. Azkaban was currently in a state of disrepair, and there was next to no one there to guard the prisoners. Accordingly, all of those who had fought for You-Know-Who had been captured and locked in the dungeons of the school, guarded by several volunteers. That night, however, a prisoner stunned the guard and escaped. He had motioned for the others locked in the room with him to come, but they refused, saying there was rumor of a werewolf. The escaped prisoner scoffed at their foolishness and ran outside, fleeing the scene, escaping.

They found his mangled body lying on the grounds the next morning, next to a shaking, unclothed Draco Malfoy. The boy was retching, covered in blood and scratches, and then fainted. His parents found him and wrapped him in a cloak, levitating his limp form up to the Hospital Wing where the Weasleys were all collected. Charlie was there, talking to Bill and Fleur, Ginny and her parents were talking to Percy, Ron was reading the _Daily Prophet _by the window, and George was sitting off by himself. Their quiet family exchanges were interrupted by a bustle of panicked noise, Flitwick and McGonagall following the Malfoys to a nearby bed. Ginny craned her neck to see, and saw the blood around the boy's mouth.

It was an hour later when Draco Malfoy awoke, moaning groggily.

"Draco?" whispered Narcissa, brushing his hair off of his forehead. Suddenly, Draco's eyes opened wide with horror and he cried out.

"Mother!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. "Mother, I can taste it, I can taste it in my mouth, oh God!" He began to cry.

"Draco, Draco calm down," said Lucius in a weak voice, but it made Draco thrash and cry harder.

"No! No, I can taste his blood, I can taste his _fucking_ b-blood," he sobbed. "I ate him, I fucking ate him!" Ginny was horrified. She certainly didn't like Draco, but she didn't want him to suffer like this. How she would react if _she_ had killed someone like that… she shuddered.

"Mr. Malfoy, it's not your fault. You had no control over yourself," said McGonagall, unable to keep a trace of repulsion out of her voice. Ginny thought that these were poor words of comfort, and Draco seemed to think so, too; he started to cry even louder.

"I killed him… I killed him, I f-fucking _ate_ him," he moaned, sobs racking his body. Narcissa was sobbing too, and Lucius was shaking, his mouth to his hand. Madame Pomfrey came over and tried to calm Draco, administering bandages and cleaning up blood. But he was shouting and crying too much, writhing under her stern hands; she had to force-feed him a fast acting sleep potion. He was asleep within a minute, his cries dying down strangely, and Poppy continued with her ministrations. Narcissa was weeping quietly, covering her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Think this is funny, do you, Weasley?" shouted Lucius at Ginny's father. "Think this is hilarious, eh? The horrible Malfoys get their comeuppance, right? Is this what you wanted to see? Does this--" but his voice broke, and he couldn't continue, just looked at Ginny's father, desperate anger emanating from him.

"No, Lucius," said Arthur calmly, and with great sympathy in his voice. "I'm really very sorry that this has happened to your family. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone." Lucius sneered at him and turned, going back to his son. Madame Pomfrey pulled a curtain around them, and set a silencing charm, looking imploringly at the Weasley family.

………………………….

He woke up later, groaning, his voice hoarse. Ginny was sitting next to Bill's bed, watching Draco across the room. Draco's parents were sitting beside him, Lucius slumped in a chair, rubbing his forehead, Narcissa patting the boy's hair. Draco began to cry again, and looked away from them, gripping his blankets so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Draco?" said Narcissa gently, stroking her son's cheek. He didn't respond.

"What will happen to him?" asked Draco's father, looking at Professor McGonagall, who was seated off to the side. "Will he be exterminated?"

McGonagall gasped; Ginny was grateful that it was only her and her two oldest brothers left in the room; the rest of her family had gone down to the kitchens for supper. If they had been here, her parents would have undoubtedly interjected angrily.

"Mr. Malfoy, that will not happen," said McGonagall, sounding a bit shaken.

"He killed someone," growled Lucius, rising to his feet. "He's a werewolf, and he's murdered a man. Surely Umbridge…"

"Dolores Umbridge will have no say in this young man's fate!" she cried, pink blotches creeping high into her cheeks. "He will _not_ be put to death!"

"But even so," said Narcissa in a shaky voice. "He's killed someone. We're a hair's breadth away from being sent to Azkaban as it is, were it not for Potter. Surely you cannot believe that he will not be imprisoned at the very least?"

"I don't think so," said McGonagall slowly. "The victim in question was to be put to death when he arrived in Azkaban, so it was an escaped fugitive that Draco attacked. Furthermore, he had no control over his own body or situation, and this type of behavior was completely out of the norm for him. I assume that he is regularly supplied with Wolfsbane?"

Malfoy's parents nodded.

"Then I see no reason why Draco should be arrested or executed."

"Umbridge's law--" interjected Lucius nervously.

"Is null and void. Kingsley sacked her and had her arrested yesterday." Timid relief seemed to flow over the couple, and their faces relaxed, eyes drifting towards their son, who was staring at the opposite wall and trembling.

"And now everyone knows," whispered Narcissa. "He'll never be able to find work, to be married… he'll be an outcast."

"Nonsense," said McGonagall. "Remus Lupin —"

"Lupin never killed anyone!" shouted Lucius. Ginny flinched. McGonagall's eyes became harder, colder, and she frowned at the man.

"Fine, Mr. Malfoy. Your son has done nothing wrong, but you obviously cannot see that he can live a relatively normal life. I will _not_ attempt to make you see that. I'll be taking my leave now. Good evening to you." And with that she rose and exited the Hospital Wing, her cloak billowing out behind her. Ginny glanced at her brothers, and squeezed Bill's hand. She nodded silently at Charlie, and walked out of the Hospital Wing herself, trying to comprehend the scene that had just occurred and the implications of Malfoy's condition and actions. She couldn't suppress the horror that resurfaced every time she thought about what Draco had done, and could not bring herself to eat dinner.

…………………..

It was a few days later when the strangest thing had happened. Ron came into the common room, which is where the Weasleys, Hermione, Harry, and Neville had decided to station themselves for the duration of their time at the school. He had a strange look on his face, like something uncomfortable was stuck in his shoe.

"What happened?" asked Ginny curiously, looking up from a game of Exploding Snap that she and Neville were playing. Hermione came in behind Ron, wearing a nearly identical look on her face.

"I never thought something like _that _would happen," said Ron, looking at Hermione, then at Ginny. "Malfoy's going to Romania. With Charlie."

"What? You're lying!" said Ginny, instantly attentive.

"It's true," said Hermione. "I never thought that his parents would agree, but Charlie made a decent argument. It's not like Malfoy's parents had any better options, really."

Ginny tried to understand what she was being told, but it was such surreal, nearly laughable news; like being told that Filch was a ballerina, or that her mother was actually a zebra. It was absurd. "I want the whole story. Please explain this so it makes sense, because right now it doesn't."

Hermione sighed and sat on a large chair beside Neville's, and Ron sat on the couch next to Ginny.

"It's so weird," muttered Ron, running his hand through his hair.

"Madame Pomfrey told Malfoy's parents that he has post-traumatic stress. That's why Malfoy had been unresponsive to anyone who's tried to talk to him. He's been in shock," Hermione said quietly. There was a pause, and thoughts of George, who had been nearly silent since Fred had died, rippled through Ginny's mind. She could tell the others were thinking the same thing.

"Anyway," continued Hermione. "Malfoy's parents were really upset by that news, obviously. They told Madam Pomfrey that they couldn't possibly take care of him, because their house was being searched and that it wouldn't be habitable for months. They also said that the person who had been supplying them Wolfsbane had died in the battle."

"I'll bet that was Snape," muttered Ron, and Hermione shot him a dark look.

"Then Charlie spoke up. He said that he had a friend back in Romania who had the same thing happen to him. Accidentally killed a man one full moon, and was completely traumatized, but is much better now. He said that he could have his friend talk to Draco. Mr. Malfoy refused at once, but Mrs. Malfoy told Charlie to go on. Then Charlie said that maybe Draco could _stay_ in Romania while their house was being repaired. Mr. Malfoy began laughing outright, which was absolutely uncalled for… and Mrs. Malfoy asked why on earth they should even entertain that idea.

"Charlie said that he could allow Draco to stay in his house, and would be able to see to it that Draco wouldn't starve himself or anything. He meant that as a joke, but the Malfoys didn't take it as one… I thought Mr. Malfoy was going to hit him. But then Charlie said that he could have Draco talk to Charlie's friend, the werewolf, and that perhaps it would make him feel better to have someone to talk to. Almost like a psychiatrist, I suppose. It would be a regular sort of meeting, if it helped. Then Charlie explained about the Wolfsbane Distribution Program that's been going on in the area. Apparently, starting in about 1978 there were a huge number of werewolf attacks, and they continued for about five years. There are tens of thousands of werewolves living in Romania now, and so there's a lot higher level of acceptance towards them, and plenty of aid from the Romanian Ministry. Charlie said that he could help Draco get some of these benefits from the Romanian government, and perhaps a job and his own house, if he wanted to."

She sighed, and Ron picked up from where she left off. "Thought Narcissa Malfoy had fallen in love with him while he was talking, she was drooling over him. Lucius said no, but Charlie said that there wasn't really a better option. He was being reasonable, I suppose, saying that he didn't want to pressure them into anything. He just explained that he didn't mind taking Malfoy in and all. In the end, they agreed. But it was mostly Malfoy's mum trying to get his dad to agree. He didn't seem too keen on it."

Ginny was shocked. She never imagined that Charlie would be so generous, or that the Malfoys would agree to this. "When are they leaving?"

"Two days," said Hermione, slouching in her chair. "Where's Harry?"

"Dumbledore's office," replied Neville, who had been listening from across the room. "He's been in there a lot lately."

"Why don't you go cheer him up, Ginny?" asked Ron, frowning at his sister.

"It's not _my_ responsibility, Ron," Ginny said with a scowl. "You're his best mate, why don't you go cheer him up?"

And with that, nearly all thoughts of Malfoy disappeared, replaced with squabbling and later laughing, slipping out of their minds like sand through outstretched fingers.

…………………

Life went on. Ginny and Harry were together, Harry doing his Auror training and Ginny trying to get through her final year at school. When Ginny finally left school, Hermione and Harry attempted to get her a job at the ministry, but she refused. She thought that it was all a bit boring, to be honest. So she went to help out George and Ron at the shop, while still living at the Burrow with her parents. Her mother often threw her disapproving looks for not having a 'real job' and for still living at home, but they stopped when Victoire was born; she was too distracted by the excitement of being a grandmother. Ginny continued to live at the Burrow for a while, feeling a bit like a leech, but too comfortable to do or care much about it.

Then one morning at breakfast her dad handed her a letter, winking. She opened it, and nearly fell out of her chair. It was a letter inviting her to try out for the Holyhead Harpies; a scout had seen her play a few years ago and hadn't forgotten her impressive flying. Ginny Floo'd to the headquarters that day.

Ginny did make it on the team and began training at once, and at the same time moved into Harry's flat in London. The two still didn't get to see each other much, with Ginny's constant travel and Harry's work. But he managed to come to nearly every match, and Ginny would make him supper when she was home. Then they would go to bed.

About two years after Ginny left school, Percy got engaged. Harry and Ginny were lying in bed together when they got the invitations, one each.

"He could have just addressed one for both of us," mumbled Harry. Ginny snatched his invitation away and wrapped herself in a sheet, carrying the invitations to the kitchen and sticking them on the fridge.

"Who's his fiancée again?" called Harry from the bedroom.

"Her name's Audrey," said Ginny, walking back into the bedroom, sheet still wrapped around her as she sat back down on the bed. "She works at the Ministry with Percy. I've only met her a few times, but Percy's absolutely mad about her."

"What's she like?" asked Harry, tucking a loose strand of Ginny's hair behind her ear. She smiled.

"Well, the first time I met her I was afraid she'd be just as dull as Percy. But she's actually very funny and quite clever. She has great hair, too."

Harry chuckled. "Do your parents like her?"

"They adore her."

Harry smiled and kissed Ginny. "Do your parents like me?" Ginny hit him playfully with a pillow, grinning.

"And _how_ many times have they said you were like a son to them?"

"I don't know. How many?"

"At least twenty thousand since you were twelve," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. Harry laughed.

…………………

A few months later, Ginny found herself once again stationed in her bedroom in the Burrow, though not without protest. Harry was away for a few days, and was due back tomorrow, a day before the wedding was set to go.

Ginny had been rather disconcerted at her mother's recent news that she announced earlier that day. Ginny had been sitting at the kitchen table, spreading jam on her toast.

"Ginny, will you come upstairs and help me, please?" asked her mother exasperatedly, her hair looking frazzled, a huge pile of linens in her arms. Ginny nodded and took half the pile. As they went up the stairs, her mother began to mumble about needing to get rooms ready.

"…and Charlie and that Malfoy boy will be arriving tonight. I need to go clear out his room; it's been empty for ages. It'll be stuffy."

Ginny nearly dropped her pile. "Wait. Did you just say _Malfoy_?" she asked, mind whirling. Molly continued up the stairs, muttering absently to herself. They arrived at the flight on which Charlie's old room was, and her mother dropped the linens on the bed and opened the window.

"Mum," said Ginny heatedly. "Did you just say that Malfoy was coming? Here?"

"Yes, Ginny, I did," she said shortly, going to the bed to put the sheets on. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Obviously not!" she said, offended. "Why is he coming _here_?"

"For the wedding, of course," said her mother.

"He was invited?"

"Yes, he's Charlie's guest. They'll be staying here in Charlie's room."

"Why doesn't Malfoy just go stay with his parents?!"

Molly sighed. "He'll be going back to his parents at the end of the week, dear. That's why Charlie invited him to come along. Malfoy is moving back here, to England."

"Back?" Ginny had no idea what she was talking about. "You mean Malfoy stayed in Romania?" Molly turned and looked at her, an incredulous expression on her face.

"Good Lord, Ginny, this is hardly news. When the Malfoys moved back into their manor, Draco wheedled his way out of leaving Romania. Seemed to like it a lot better, had a job and everything. Didn't Charlie tell you? It's been nearly three years, after all."

"No," said Ginny glumly. "He doesn't say much in his letters. But you'd think he would tell me _that_!" She sighed. "Poor Charlie."

"And why do you say that?" asked her mother, fluffing the pillows, curtains fluttering behind her.

"Because he's had to put up with Malfoy for all this time. I'll bet it was dreadful, I probably would have killed him by now," she muttered, grabbing a pillow and putting a pillowcase on it.

"I don't think your brother sees it that way," Molly said.

"What, do you mean Malfoy and him are mates now?"

"Something along those lines," Molly mumbled. "If they weren't, why would Charlie invite him to his brother's wedding?"

……………….

Ginny, George, Ron, and her parents were sitting at the table eating supper when the two arrived. The five of them were talking quietly amongst themselves when they heard rustling and quiet murmuring outside. Then they heard footsteps on the stoop, and they turned to the opening door.

"Hi everyone," said Charlie warmly as the door swung open. He was grinning, his broad shoulders taking up most of the doorframe. A rush of warm summer air blew through the kitchen. He walked inside, carrying his bags and bumping a few peoples' chairs. He shook Ron, George, and Arthur's hands, kissed their mum on the cheek, and exclaimed how Ginny nearly looked like a grown woman now. Then he ruffled her hair, much to her discontent. Charlie looked nearly the same from when Ginny had seen him last; the only real difference was that his hair was a bit longer and he had a few more scars (there was a particularly big and gruesome-looking one on his left forearm). Then Charlie looked towards the figure behind him at the door, and motioned for him to come in. Draco certainly looked different from when Ginny last saw him, but she reminded herself that the last time she saw him he was covered in blood and raving hysterically. He was thinner, much older-looking, and a bit worn; he looked like an adult, whereas Ron and Harry still retained a bit of youthfulness in their faces, and it startled Ginny. His hair was longer and messier, not neat like it had been when they were at Hogwarts. There was a strained, aching silence, the family staring at him as he looked towards his feet. Then Ginny's mum took his hand, smiled, and said "Welcome to the Burrow, dear."

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice also without remnants of how it had sounded when he was young; it was deeper and a bit hoarse. He shook Ginny's dad's hand and gave a small nod to the other people at the table; Ginny and George nodded back, but Ron just glowered at him, and Malfoy's slightly sunken cheeks grew pink.

"You two can just head up to Charlie's room and get all of your things unpacked. We have dinner if you're hungry," said Ginny's mum, shooing both men up the stairs. Ginny listened to their footsteps fade overhead, and everyone was tense, not saying anything, except for Ginny's dad muttering about "Lucius Malfoy's son under _my _roof…" They tensed again when footsteps came down the stairs, but it was Charlie alone.

"Draco's not feeling well. He's going to sleep," he said quietly. Ron snorted, but their mum said she'd bring him some tea after dessert. Charlie smiled and kissed her on the top of her head.

The next day was quiet. Harry arrived, and Ginny told him in hushed tones that Draco Malfoy was staying in the Burrow as Charlie's guest. Harry was horrified, and demanded every detail that Ginny had. Then he sighed and told Ginny that he and Ron were going to pick up Hermione, and asked her to come.

"I'd really rather not see Malfoy, Gin. Let's go," he whispered, grabbing her hand. She pulled it away.

"My brother's wedding is tomorrow, Harry. Mum's going crazy, and if I'm not here to help then I don't doubt I'll be beaten in some way, shape or form, regardless of the fact that I'm an adult and no longer live with her."

Harry gave her a little frown, but she kissed the tip of his nose. "Go away. And bring back some napkins. Mum's worried we won't have enough."

Her mother gave her a pile of things to be taken to the attic, and nearly shoved her up the stairs before Harry had a chance to say goodbye. She scowled down at her mother and climbed several flights. When she went up farther, she heard talking. Some small voice in her head told her to hide, so instead of going all the way up the stairs she stopped midway and peered through the railing into the room across the hall; Charlie's room. The door was open and she watched the two men inside. Charlie and Malfoy were sitting on Charlie's bed, facing each other, and talking in low tones. Malfoy was looking at his hands, fiddling with something, and Charlie was talking quietly, gently. Then Charlie slowly leaned in and kissed Draco, his eyes fluttering shut.

Ginny looked away and felt herself nearly fall. She tried to rush down the stairs as quietly as possible, but wasn't sure if she was managing it very well. She could feel her face heat up, and thought it must be nearly as red as a tomato. She was absolutely shocked and bewildered, her brain failing to process what she had just seen. Quickly she went to her room, dumping the pile of things, and ran downstairs. Her mother was in the kitchen, cleaning the cabinets out.

"Mum, you… what I just saw… Charlie…" she sputtered, having difficulty getting her words out. "Charlie and Malfoy, they… they were _snogging_!"

Her mum was unsurprised, which shocked Ginny nearly as much as seeing her brother kiss Malfoy. "Let them be, Ginny."

"_You knew_?!"

"Shh! Don't you dare tell a single one of your brothers! Or Harry! Charlie wants it kept secret, and you have no right to go interfering with that!" she hissed.

"Does dad know?!"

"Not about Draco. He knows that Charlie prefers men, but that's it, and I want it kept that way!"

"Who else knows?"

"Just you and Bill. And I suspect Draco's mother knows a bit, and is partly why she wants him back home. Not a _word_, Ginevra."

"So that's why Malfoy stayed in Romania," Ginny muttered, disgusted.

"I don't know, Ginny. I can only assume that's the reason," Molly said quietly, going back to her cleaning work.

"And Draco's leaving him after this week, right? He's going back to live with his parents. That doesn't make much sense, if --"

"I know it doesn't," growled her mother. "I can't say I'm pleased. Your poor brother's heart is broken. But I assume that there must be a good reason, or Charlie wouldn't allow it." Ginny was quiet for a while, thinking about how and why this thing between Malfoy and her brother had even happened. She began to help her mother clean the cabinets.

"How did dad take it? Charlie, I mean?" she asked softly, changing the subject. To her surprise, her mother chuckled.

"The same way any father would, I suppose. A little denial, and then a great amount of worry. Didn't want Charlie turning into a Gilderoy Lockhart type, if you catch my meaning. But then after a while he realized that even though Charlie wasn't interested in women, he was still _Charlie_. And Charlie is the farthest from flamboyant that a man could possibly be," she explained, smiling. Ginny tried to smile back, but the image of Charlie and Draco kissing was burned into her mind. She blushed with embarrassment at witnessing such an intimate moment, and her mother asked if she was feeling all right.

…………………

That evening, Ginny couldn't stop noticing. She noticed the way, when they orbited around each other in the kitchen while helping Ginny's mother, they would brush against each other ever-so-slightly. She was captivated by the way Charlie would clench his hand when Draco was near, as if he wanted to touch him, as if he had to quell something that had long been a habit for him. She noted when they would look at each other from across the room, unspeaking. She didn't like that it was Malfoy, but she understood; she had Harry, after all.

Dinner was tense, with Ron staring accusatorily at Draco all night. Harry and Hermione looked away, and the rest of the family except for Ginny's parents and Charlie ignored him. Percy was there, too, nervously ripping up his napkin. To nearly everyone's relief, when the strain was nearly too much to bear, George got up and announced that he would be taking Percy out for his bachelor party, which would include a "revolting amount of alcohol consumption and plenty of gorgeous women" and that all men were welcome to come. Everyone laughed, and Ron and George grabbed the protesting Percy by the shoulders. Harry glanced at Ginny and she nodded, giving him leave to go. Her mum glared at her dad, and the grin faded from his face. Bill got up, but said he was going to be going home; he had all the gorgeous girls he needed there already. Ginny looked over, and Draco was muttering something to Charlie in a low tone. Charlie smiled at him, and Draco gave a weak one back. With that, Charlie stood up and walked out to join his brothers.

"I'm still feeling a bit ill, Mrs. Weasley. I think I'll go upstairs and sleep," said Malfoy quietly, looking at Ginny's mother. She gave him a little smile.

"You go right ahead. I'll bring you some tea, if you'd like." He gave her a tight-lipped smile.

"That would be nice, thanks," he said, and wandered over to the stairs, climbing them slowly. Ginny's mother pursed her lips and shook her head.

………………………

The next morning was absolute chaos. Molly was rushing about the house, doing last-minute cleaning and yelling for people to begin setting things up; like Bill's wedding, it would be held in the yard. Audrey's parents and a few of her guests had already arrived; her mother was a Muggle, and looked around the living room curiously, with Ginny's mother cleaning and pointing things out to her. Audrey's father was talking amicably with Ginny's father.

All of the boys had come home very late the previous night in various states of drunkenness; George, Ron, and Percy had gotten particularly smashed. Harry was slurring a bit, and Charlie was extremely friendly, not shutting up for a moment. Harry had come into Ginny's bedroom and kicked the door closed. He started kissing her heatedly, and began to undress both of them, but then nearly fell asleep when they were both in just their pants. Ginny was very annoyed and kicked him off of the bed. She made him sleep on the floor, much to her satisfaction.

She smirked as she remembered this, carrying plates out to the tables. She heard her mother call for her, and went back in.

"Ginny! For God's sake, people will be arriving in a few hours! Go upstairs and wake up the boys!" she shrieked.

"Er, mum, I don't think they'll wake up easily…"

"Just give them this hangover potion!" she said shortly, slapping a vial into Ginny's hand. "Tell them to get up and get ready for the damn wedding!" Ginny rolled her eyes and went upstairs. She kicked Harry's shin and he blinked groggily. Then she went to Percy's room, where he, Ron, and George were all lying about, snoring. Ginny yelled for them to wake up, taking satisfaction in their winces, and gave them each a bit of hangover potion. Then she went up another flight of stairs to Charlie's room.

When she opened the door, she wasn't necessarily shocked at what she saw; she half-expected to see them like this. But it didn't stop her face from turning as red as an apple from embarrassment. The sun was pouring through the window, basking the two bodies in light. Draco was lying on his back, one arm resting above his head and the other to his side; Charlie had an arm wrapped around him and his face was pressed into Draco's chest. They were sleeping and naked, save for a sheet covering their lower halves. _Thank God for small favors_, thought Ginny. Ignoring her mortification, she drew a deep breath.

"Oi! You two! Get up!" she said loudly. Draco opened one eye blearily and glanced at Ginny. Charlie opened his eyes and sat up, panicky and gasping.

"Oh God… Ginny! This isn't… this is _not_…" he spluttered, looking at her wildly. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Charlie, you and I both know perfectly well that this _is _what it looks like. Look, you're my brother, and I love you, no matter who you're shagging. Even if it _is_ Malfoy. I don't care _what_ you do in your private life, but right now you need to get _up_ and get _downstairs_ before mum bites my head off, all right? And that means _both _of you!" Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heel and walked out the door, towards the stairs. It was surprising to hear the loud laughter and the sound of Charlie grumbling coming from the room behind her. She smiled and made her way downstairs.

It was at that moment that she decided she didn't hate Draco Malfoy anymore.

...

A/N: I've got the whole thing plotted out already, so this won't be some long story that has no discernible end. It'll be about 4-6 parts, each one pretty long. I might have to split them a bit.

That being said, unfortunately this won't be updated super often. Hopefully I will be finished by the end of summer. I'm almost through with the next part, and hopefully the one after will come along much quicker.

This story has been bouncing around my head for a while, and I want to do it justice.


	3. Charlie, pt I

**II. Charlie**

**Part I**

When he got the letter he cried. It was an urgent post, delivered in less than twenty-four hours; he got it while he was still on the reserve, packing up for the day. The owl dropped the letter on his head, which made him laugh.

It was generally an unspoken rule among these gruff, harsh dragon keepers with whom he worked that one never cried; if you were cut by a dragon, bashed in the head, burnt so badly your flesh blackened, anything… you would be a man and deal with it. When Charlie began crying quietly, they eyed him suspiciously, and asked what was in the letter.

"My brother's been murdered."

...

He Flooed to the French Ministry in Versailles, and from there to London. There was a massive amount of people going to Hogwarts, each with their own purpose and story. Charlie waited his turn, thoughts threatening to eat away at his mind.

For some reason he didn't quite believe it until he got there. As soon as he left the fireplace and felt his mother's arms around him, whispering her thanks to a deity beyond them, Charlie knew it was true. He didn't need to see a body.

There was Ginny, little Ginny, looking so young and so old at the same time. Percy was crying, his glasses broken and his arm was at an odd angle; Bill was there, his closest brother, shaking and shaking and looking away. Ron was off with his friends. And there was George, looking so empty, looking so defeated. A surge of panic nearly overtook him when the thought entered his mind that George may never smile again; how could he? He forced himself to look away from his brother and pushed the thought down so deep he hoped it would drown.

The survivors went about repairing the castle. Charlie refused to go into the Great Hall; he didn't want to see the bodies. Bill told him who had died, and his stomach dropped when he learned of Tonks and her husband Lupin. He and Tonks had always got along well together at school, and he knew that she and Lupin had just had a baby. It was unfair; they had just begun their life together, and to have it ended so early…

He wanted, _needed_ to get his mind off of things so he threw himself into work; whipping his wand about, trying to mend as much as he could, taking orders from McGonagall. It was only him, Ginny, and Ron, really, that could help; Bill was having after-shocks of some curse, Percy's arm was severely broken, and George was barely moving at all. Charlie welcomed the work, the sweat, to keep away the hurt that threatened to blossom out from the center of his chest and overwhelm his whole body.

...

He was in the hospital wing when they brought him in, limp and blonde and red with blood. Charlie watched the people around him run about frantically, hands flying and speaking in terrified voices. He turned away, didn't want to see. It was sickening.

The nearly unintelligible screaming that came from the boy made all of the muscles in his body tense. He could scarcely imagine the horror that the young man must be feeling; to have the taste of blood in one's mouth without the recollection of it having gotten there. Charlie remembered a man he knew in Romania; the same thing had happened to him, and he hadn't really been the same since. His sympathy for that man increased tenfold as he heard the screams, the cries of horror, the despair slowly taking control of that panicked voice.

They had to call Madame Pomfrey to sedate him. His cries diminished eerily, and the weeping of his mother could be heard. Mr. Malfoy, so angry, so distressed, yelled at Charlie's father, needing someone to blame. Crying out that Charlie's father was enjoying this. How could anyone enjoy seeing this?

"No, Lucius. I'm really very sorry that this has happened to your family. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone." The eldest Weasleys swelled with pride at the words of their father.

Hours later, Draco was catatonic. His mother was pleading, asking what could be done. Charlie was forming an idea in his mind, but didn't share it until a few days later. It involved his werewolf friend and the lycanthropy assistance that the Romanian government readily provided. He knew that if the young man stayed in Britain, he would be ostracized for being a werewolf, a murderer, and the child of a known Death Eater. Charlie was sure that the Malfoys knew all of this, and that it would likely lead to Draco's ruin. Romania was an ideal place for a werewolf to live; Charlie could help him.

He explained it to the Malfoy parents one afternoon, trying to be as calm and objective as he could. Truthfully, he didn't much want Malfoy to come live with him, but felt that not giving him this option would be pure selfishness on Charlie's part. Lucius Malfoy laughed outright when Charlie proposed the situation, but his wife listened. She wanted to know. Charlie could see the hope blooming in her eyes, and when he had finished telling them about the likelihood of their son being able to have free access to Wolfsbane every month, Charlie knew she was convinced. She goaded her husband into allowing it, and he agreed with great reluctance, glancing at his sleeping son, his eyes filled with worry.

...

The trip back was difficult. Draco was completely non-compliant and unresponsive. Charlie had to make a series of side-long apparitions across the country, and by the time they got to France he was exhausted. All the while Draco just stood there, staring at nothing. Charlie tried to explain what was happening, what he was doing, to make him comfortable. He met up with a friend in Germany who helped him bring Draco the rest of the way. They had set out in the morning, but by the time they got to Charlie's cottage it was nightfall. They brought Draco in and sat him on the bed in Charlie's guest bedroom, and then his friend left. Charlie didn't much know what to do with him, so he began to talk.

"Hello, Draco. My name's Charlie Weasley. This is my house we're in, and this is your room. You'll be staying with me until you're better, all right? The toilet's down the hall, if you need it." He glanced about awkwardly. "Er… well, are you hungry?"

Draco met Charlie's eyes, the first responsive thing he had done all day. They were dull, grey, cold. He shook his head minutely.

"No? But you've only had breakfast today. Are you sure you're not hungry?" Draco only looked away.

"Right. Well, I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. We went through it, remember? You can sleep if you'd like, or come out and sit. I don't mind what you do. As long as it's nothing dangerous, I suppose." Charlie gave him a small smile and walked to the door, looking back for a moment. _Is this him?_ He thought. _This is Lucius Malfoy's son? The son of a Death Eater? The one whom Ron had written about in his letters, the one who tortured Ron and his friends with horrible insults, hexes, name-calling? _This_ is him?_ With one last glance at the thin, pale, sad boy, he turned and went into the kitchen.

...

Charlie had to coax Draco into eating breakfast that morning, and he only made it about halfway through his toast before he looked like he was about to retch. He tried to help the young man, but the he shrunk away from his touch, pulling into himself and staring at his lap, eyes hooded and hair falling into his face. Charlie felt a bit hurt, but went about getting ready for work and left. He would come around eventually.

When he returned home, he found Draco asleep in the guest bedroom, and let him be. Charlie made supper, and left a plate outside Draco's door on a chair. Then he took a shower and went to bed. That night he awoke to screams, and was so startled he nearly fell out of bed. It took him a second to remember Draco, and he ran into the other room, knocking the plate with food off of the chair in the process. Draco was screaming and trembling, his whole body trembling, eyes screwed closed. Without thinking, Charlie immediately grabbed Draco and held him, trying to stop the shaking and the yelling. The screams quieted a bit, and turned into sobs. It took a few minutes, but Draco finally stopped shaking, collapsing as if boneless. Charlie held him awkwardly until he fell back asleep, not saying a word.

...

The next morning was much like the previous one. Charlie wolfed down sausage links and eggs while Draco only managed half a slice of toast. He went to work, came home to find Draco asleep, and went to bed. He was awoken by screaming again, and did the same thing as he had the night before. This continued for about a week; the same pattern, over and over, like some strange, distorted stitch.

Charlie hadn't managed to get much out of Draco when it came to responses; he had begun to say "No" and "Yes", but not much else. It was nearly a week until the full moon, and Charlie went to the local apothecary to pick up the Wolfsbane. Technically, if one were a werewolf, one would have to register with the government in order to gain access to the potion at the apothecary. Charlie thanked the gods of corruption that the local owners of this particular outfit were susceptible to under-the-table trade practices and bribing. Though he was a few galleons short, he told himself that next month he would bring Draco to be registered. Because he knew the boy would be better by then.

_Draco will be better next month._

He walked into the house that night, potion in hand, wondering—not for the first time—how Draco had ended up a werewolf at all. Charlie peeked in on the sleeping figure, pale and folded in on itself in the middle of that weary bed. Charlie remembered Lupin, and how Lupin looked lined and worn, like an old letter read constantly and folded over again and again. Would Draco grow to look like that? Would he become worn, too, from the terrible stress that the monthly transformations would put him through? Strangely, it made him angry. Who did this to him? Who assumed they had the _right_ to take away Draco's youth, Draco's looks, Draco's life? His fingers dug into the door jamb painfully.

Draco stirred. Charlie told him that he had the Wolfsbane, and Draco could come to the kitchen and begin taking it when he was ready. This variation required a week of dosages prior to the moon. He turned and began toward the kitchen, but heard a strange choked sound. He turned, and Draco was sitting up on the bed, shaking. He began to sob and cry out, protesting something that Charlie didn't understand. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and forced him to stay still, but it was difficult; Draco was trying his damnedest to break free from his grasp, almost as if Charlie's touch caused him pain. Already angry, Charlie began to shout. No, Draco could not go; he would have to stay here and live with his situation, lest something like last month happen again.

At that Draco stilled, but continued to cry. All words of reassurance and apologies that began to flow from Charlie's mouth like water fell upon deaf ears; the boy refused to listen. Charlie gave up and went to the kitchen. He poured the proper amount of Wolfsbane into a wooden cup and left it on a chair in Draco's room, telling him that he could drink it if he wanted, could drink it if he wanted to have some sense of control at the next full moon. Then Charlie left the room and went to bed, feeling slightly defeated.

The next morning, however, the cup was empty.

...

The morning after the full moon was difficult. That night, Charlie had left Draco alone in his room with a bowl of water and a bit of meat. When he woke up the next day, Draco was sore and naked, lying under the covers on his bed. The meat was completely untouched.

Charlie attempted to rouse the boy, but he seemed to be back in his state of unresponsiveness. Pulling Draco up and tucking the blanket around him, Charlie lifted him up and brought him to the bathroom for a shower. As he carried him, a sense of alarm began to grow inside of Charlie; Draco was very light, and he could feel the boy's bones jutting out of his body like the jagged tips of quills out of a schoolbag.

"You'll be eating more," he muttered, setting the boy on his feet. "I'll make some breakfast, Draco. You need to wash up, and when you come out to the kitchen, we'll talk." As expected, he got no response, so he left Draco in the bathroom, wrapped in the blanket, and went to the kitchen. He was pleased when, about twenty minutes later, he heard the door close and the shower go on.

Draco slowly came into the kitchen, still in the blanket (Charlie must have forgotten to leave a towel out). His hair was wet, but looked as if he had run his fingers through it, and seemed attentive, his face expressive. Charlie set a plate of eggs down in front of him, but he didn't touch it. He felt his eyebrows knit together in a frown, and sat down across from Draco.

"You're far too thin," Charlie said quietly. "So we'll not be having meat in this household any longer. I know you haven't eaten it anyway… but there won't be any in the house. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable."

A subtle change came over Draco, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his expression seemed to soften slightly. Charlie smiled, a warm feeling blooming in his chest.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You… I have a friend who was once in a situation very similar to yours. I would like you to meet him."

Draco's eyes filled with panic. "I don't want to," he croaked.

Charlie then told him he'd have to, damn it. He tried to explain the importance, but the boy just kept repeating that he didn't want to, he didn't want to. After about five minutes of back and forth arguing, Charlie stood up and said it didn't matter if Draco wanted to or not; it was for his own good and he would have to.

...

It seemed strange, for a while, after Draco had begun to speak to Charlie's friend. They had passed the stage where Draco was merely a broken young man that Charlie had to feed on occasion, and comfort him when he had night terrors; a novelty, a prop. It was as if the wound inside of Draco had scabbed over, crusty and tender. He was not just the distressed and vacant soul staying in Charlie's house; he was Draco Malfoy. The son of a Death Eater, wrapped up in Pureblood mania, angry and hurt, young and confused. And that frightened the hell out of Charlie.

At first he spoke little, asking bland questions about the meal for the day or Charlie's work. Charlie was never good with words, and found himself incapable of accurately describing how majestic the dragons were. He wondered aloud if perhaps it would be a good idea to take Draco to see them.

But then, the more Draco met with the werewolf, the more he began to speak. Sometimes he would tell a bit about his day, which sent a wave of guilt through Charlie. It seemed Draco didn't much go outside, not sure if it was allowed, and thus was confined to the house, mostly reading and sleeping. He remembered the first conversation they actually had; it was about Quidditch, and which teams were superior to which. Charlie had done his best to make a case for the Cannons, but in the back of his mind he knew it was no good. Draco had argued quite vehemently for the Wasps, but the statistics he was arguing were a few seasons old.

"Well, I'm sorry that I haven't had time to follow bloody Quidditch for the past two seasons," he said angrily, getting to his feet. "I've been busy, in case you didn't know." With that he stormed off to his room, slamming the door. Charlie stayed in his chair and rubbed his forehead; there was a slight pressure growing behind his eye, like someone pressing their thumb against it from inside his skull: the beginnings of a headache. He slowly reached over and clicked off the wireless, which had been broadcasting the local Quidditch match that had started the whole thing. Rising, he went to his room and to bed, though it was still quite early.

Draco's parents sent letters addressed to both of them regularly; they had mostly been urgent, asking for every detail of Draco's well-being, which, for the first few weeks, had been piss-poor. After the second full moon Draco wrote back. It had usually just been Charlie writing, but he had no desire to write about how awful this full moon had been. The morning after, before work, he gathered a handful of parchment, quills, and ink, and shoved them into Draco's arms before walking out the door.

...

Charlie had no idea how to deal with him. Draco was polite and distant, a bit cold at times. But Charlie could see it, just under the surface, like a pulsating ripple that could cause Draco's body to distort itself: anger. Twice Charlie had come home to holes in the wall from where he suspected Draco had punched it. The second time, he told Draco not to do it again, and received a scathing response in reply. _Well, fine_, he thought. He remembered that Bill used to have anger problems as a kid, and would punch things and bang his head on the wall. Mum thought he was mad, but Dad thought differently and used to take him places to get energy out, to get his anger out. _He probably just hates being cooped up,_ thought Charlie. _A bit of fresh air will do him good. Worked for Bill._

He borrowed a broom from a friend at the Reserve, and fished his own out of a cupboard. He found Draco eating a carrot at the kitchen table and listening to the wireless.

"You're a Seeker, right?" asked Charlie, tossing the bewildered young man a broom as he held the other. Draco nodded slowly, a chunk of carrot hanging out of his mouth. Charlie grinned and took the precious Snitch—the last one he caught as a Seeker for Gryffindor (nicked it from Hooch) and one of his favorite possessions—out of his pocket. He bade Draco to come with him and went outside, down a small dirt path. They walked to a field behind the cottage and Charlie let the Snitch loose.

As soon as Charlie got on his broom a feeling of joy swept through him, making his very bones vibrate as if they had been plucked like strings by divine fingers. He pushed off, the wind rushing through his hair as he ascended high above the ground. He circled around the meadow, feeling like he was being cleansed by the speed and the air, like all the misery and death that had been the center of the past few months were being washed off of his body like mud under a faucet.

_I should fly more often._

He stopped and hovered above the field, and watched as Draco flew quickly towards him from the right. Charlie was startled by the way he looked… or perhaps it was that he had really seen him for the first time. His hair was severely disheveled from the wind, and his cheeks were a deep pink color. His pale grey eyes were alight with something other than anger, and his mouth was curved up a smile, giving him a handsome, aristocratic air. Though he was beginning to look a bit worn, he still looked happier than Charlie had ever seen him. _He's beautiful_, he thought with a sudden pang in his chest that he almost understood. This thought appealed to him more than it probably should have, being a Weasley, and it made him grin devilishly.

And Draco _was_ beautiful, even as a smirk graced his lips and he said "Ready to lose, Weasley?"

Charlie smiled broadly and zipped away, pretending to look for the Snitch. Draco flew the other way. Charlie watched him; he was graceful and lean, flying with little effort, his muscles seeming to contract with each movement of the broom. _He really is gorgeous, isn't he?_ thought Charlie, and felt his face flush, frowning. Malfoy was attractive, and that suddenly made everything even more complicated. But before Charlie could think more upon this, he saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and raced off.

...

The pain was blinding, terrible. He barely managed to stumble in the door and into a rickety wooden chair, clutching his arm. It was the worst burn he had ever gotten; it peeled his skin, made it smell like raw meat, made his flesh look like a skinned rabbit. The pain was roaring through his body from this one spot, like horrid fingers scraping their way down his nerves. It threatened to eat up his consciousness, and he began to see patches of white ahead of him, causing him to feel a vague sense of panic. He heard a voice saying something, but couldn't understand. All he could understand was the pain and _damn fuck shit why the hell didn't I ask for more Dittany or pain cream or go to the fucking hospital or-- _

And then the pain began to diminish. It was a wonderful feeling, a wonderful relief, and he could see again, see long white fingers spreading some strange beige paste on his seared flesh, and by God it was healing and those lovely fingers—

"Where did you get the salve?" he croaked, gulping air and watching Draco's hands mend his arm.

"Made it," murmured the young man.

Charlie should have asked when, or how, or how much, but he didn't.

"Why?" he asked.

"Just in case."

Draco had finished bandaging Charlie's arm, and was delivering vague instructions on how to take care of it so it would heal well, or at least that's what he assumed Draco was saying. Charlie couldn't hear a thing, not really. All he could see was Draco, who was looking at his feet and blushing, strangely, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the bandage and skin on Charlie's arm. An odd mix of gratitude and desire rushed through Charlie's body, and the world began to quiver dangerously, the whole of it shrunken down to nothing more than Draco's touch.

Charlie didn't think, and in retrospect he probably should have; impulses are a dangerous thing to act upon. But act upon one he did; before the young man could say another word, Charlie had grabbed him by the shoulders and was pressing his mouth to the other young man's. And after a bit of wriggling and sounds of protestation, Draco's lips softened and he was kissing him back, his clumsy hands searching for a place to go and then finally finding their way around Charlie's waist. _So perfect, so perfect, sofuckingperfect._ Charlie broke the kiss and grinned into Draco's neck, planting little kisses there as Draco's breathing sped up.

"That… what was…" Malfoy panted, sounding nervous and exhilarated both. But before he could finish, Charlie's arm began to twinge with pain, and he let go of Draco, touching it tenderly.

"You idiot. You've messed up the bandages… I'll have to do them up again." Charlie grinned stupidly as Draco reprimanded him and did the bandage back up, this one tighter and much less comfortable. When Draco was done he frowned at the still- grinning Charlie, who pushed a stray lock of hair out the blonde's eye and leaned in to kiss him again, this time deeper. The feeling of firm lips pressing against his was heavenly, and Draco's hand creeping up to press right behind his neck nearly undid him. They spent the rest of the evening (only stopping for a small supper) snogging voraciously in various locations throughout the cottage, memorizing each others' mouths, pressing against each other, learning.

When it was time for bed, which was sooner rather than later as Charlie had to get up early the next day, they parted shyly into their separate rooms, and Charlie wanked so hard he thought we would chafe himself.

...

The next evening, after he came home from work, Draco had informed him that he had gone out and got a job at the local Apothecary and they would give him a reduced fee on the next month's Wolfsbane, which Charlie was grateful for; it had been three moons already and he was still deeply indebted, and had a sneaking suspicion that the Wolfsbane Draco was being supplied with wasn't as effective as it was supposed to be. The last two moons, he had heard snarling, and Draco still refused to talk about anything to do with his condition; Charlie knew better to push the subject. He thanked whatever deities there existed that Draco would be registered with the Romanian Ministry for Wolfsbane by next week.

Charlie congratulated him with a kiss, which led to a bout of heavy kissing, interrupted by dinner. Charlie grinned across the table at him all through the meal, noting the way Draco's lips looked fuller and redder, and how lovely they looked when food was pushed through them, when they pressed together gently while Draco chewed.

That night he wanked so hard he thought he would pull his equipment off. When he cried out, he thought he heard a twin cry coming from the room adjacent to his, but his body was too tired to care.

...

And the evening after that, Charlie came home exhausted; work had been a bit trying, and he couldn't do much as his arm was still healing. That night Draco and Charlie went into Charlie's room and became entangled within each other, their mouths only coming unattached when Charlie pulled his shirt off and Draco began kissing down his chest. Malfoy shrugged his outer robes off, and Charlie reached for the buttons of his pants.

"Wait," Draco said quietly.

"What is it?" asked Charlie, sitting up as Draco sat down, his face illuminated by the low summer moonlight pouring in through the window. He skin was blue in the night, and his hair looked white; his pale eyes flashed with apprehension.

"I'm not supposed to… I'm not supposed to be here. Doing this. I'm… I'm not supposed to be gay, or…." Charlie was taken aback: he thought that would be the least of Draco's worries, all things considered. But Draco looked at his long, pale hands, which sat lifelessly in his lap, and his pointed face had a look of misery on it.

"Draco," said Charlie, grabbing one of his hands. "You're not supposed to be a lot of things that you are, and you're not supposed to do a lot of things that you're doing." He sighed and felt a sad smile quirk his lips. "But here you are. Here _we_ are."

Draco looked up, his expression unfathomable. And for a moment, Charlie saw something otherworldly sitting across from him, some pale, beautiful creature that had been abused by and was lost in the world. A lonely ethereal being that he wanted nothing than to pull into his arms and whisper to: _It's all right_. And he knew he would have to, and that he wanted to more than anything in the world. He was pulled from his reverie by the feeling of soft lips press against his, and allowed himself to be gently pressed back down onto the bed.

That night he sucked Draco's cock like he had never done to anyone before, drawing marvelous sounds from the man and wanking himself off in the process; Draco came first with a cry, and then Charlie, moments later. Then they fell asleep together in a state of semi-dress, too tired and sated and pleased to care. He found out much later that it was the first blow job Draco had ever gotten, which surprised him, but Draco merely smirked.

By the next evening, Draco had unofficially moved into Charlie's room.

...

Summer blended seamlessly into itself; when looking back on it, Charlie just remembered everything being golden. The sky, the dragons, the meadows surrounding his hamlet, the cottages, the heat itself; it was a pleasant warmth that filled him up from the inside and radiated out through his skin.

He remembered the first day he brought Draco to visit the dragons, how frightened Draco was when he saw Charlie's favorite, Bess. Charlie asked him if he'd like to touch her, but he shook his head violently and said he didn't much like animals. And how, afterwards, they had gone home and brought each other off in Charlie's room, gasping and pulling and every inch of their bodies flushed red. They lay in bed, after, and looked at each other, trying to learn the whole of each others' faces perfectly as if it was the last time they would see each other. Draco's was long and tired, severe angles around the edge, his white-blonde hair falling untidily into his eyes, much longer than it had been when he first arrived. Draco suddenly smirked and said something about Charlie's 'dragon fixation', which made him laugh and broke the quiet mood.

Charlie kissed him with silly, sloppy kisses all down his chest, and sucked him off again, listening for those miraculous noises and enjoying the ripple of pleasure down his spine when he heard them.

...

When his mother sent a letter asking him to visit home again to see if he could cheer up George, Charlie agreed and was gone for a week, leaving Draco alone.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Charlie asked, packing his clothes into a bag.

"Yes. I have a job here, and the moon's tomorrow," he said dismissively, not even looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

Charlie kissed him soundly and promised to come back soon.

When he arrived at the Burrow, George was in an awful state, reeking of Firewhiskey and refusing to leave the house at all. Ron was going mad, running the business by himself, and his mother was at the end of her rope, her nerves frazzled; one twin dead, the other terribly depressed. Charlie tried talking to George, but assumed that everything he tried to say had already _been_ said, to no effect. In the end, Charlie ended up dragging George bodily from the house and to a nearby pond, throwing his hollering brother into the middle of it. When his brother emerged from the water, soaking and looking exceedingly small, he began to weep and sat on the grass.

"You know he would have wanted you to get on with life, George," said Charlie in a low voice, sitting down next to him. "Think of what he's saying. Probably laughing his arse off right now. You look like a soggy cat."

A wet chuckle escaped from George, and it was followed by a shaky sigh. "I know. I know, Charlie, it just hurts. I don't know how to go on without him. I've always been 'Fred and George' or 'George and Fred'. The only time…" he choked. "The only time I've been just 'George' was when my ear was cut off, and he was still _there_ for that. He was still there!" He dissolved back into quiet tears, bringing his knees to his chest. Charlie put an arm around his brother, not knowing what to say.

When he came home, he was in a cheerless mood, and ignored Draco's attempts at conversation, and later, seduction. They went to bed in separate rooms, and Charlie couldn't help but think Draco was angry with him. Though, he reasoned, it would be a bit unreasonable.

Draco was a bit irritated, but Charlie didn't want to bother with the man's moods. He may as well know everything so he wouldn't act like a sullen brat whenever Charlie felt like shit. So Charlie sat him down and told him everything about his family, how they were getting on since the war had ended. There developed a strange, remote look in Draco's eyes, and when Charlie was finished he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and left Draco sitting there on the sofa alone. After a little while, Draco still hadn't stirred from the couch, and for a moment Charlie feared he was in another one of those horrible states of catatonia again. He sat next to him and put his arms around the man, pulling him down so they both lay on the sofa. The weight in Charlie's chest eased considerably when Draco turned his head so his pointed chin poked painfully into Charlie's sternum. The dark circles under his eyes made them look bigger, as if they were weights pulling them wide open. Charlie was about to brush his thumbs under his eyes when Draco gave him an impish grin and kissed him, running his hands up under the dragon tamer's shirt and then to the waistline of his pants. Charlie's bad mood was quickly forgotten.

...

The months passed pleasantly enough. The mail from the Malfoys had essentially stopped coming, which Charlie took as a sign that they were beginning to relax a bit. And when it did come, Draco would be the one to do most the writing, anyway.

Charlie was fascinated by the planes and valleys of Draco's body. The way his skin looked like still water, so delicate that he was afraid to even graze his fingertips along it for fear of disturbing it. How his mouth was so flexible, and could make Charlie laugh, cringe, frown, cry, come. How his face looked so worn after a full moon, how his back was so smooth and perfect, how his neck was so pale and arched beautifully. He traced the strange raised stripes that were scars across his chest, asking what they were from but getting no reply, and gently fingered the ugly scar on Draco's shoulder from where he was bitten by the werewolf (and again he wondered the circumstances surrounding it but was too afraid to ask). But what Charlie liked most were Draco's hands; how they looked so long and delicate, but were firm and could wring pleasure from Charlie like no other person had, ever.

And as the autumn passed and winter crept in, their lives began to intertwine like threads in a cloth. Charlie's house became 'our house'. Charlie's room became 'our room'. Draco was still having a difficult time after transformations, and still seemed to spend quite a bit of time by himself. There was also the uncomfortable topic of their families and their pasts, and Charlie didn't want to push Draco into another state of desolation, which was incredibly likely to happen if they talked about the war. Therefore, conversation became a bit strained after a while

It was nearing Christmas, and they had taken a few trips into Bucharest to buy gifts for family, and for each other. As a surprise gift, he took Malfoy to the best wandmaker in the area for a new wand, as he knew Draco's was still in Harry Potter's possession. When Draco held his new one for the first time, a look of pure wonder came over his face. Draco looked joyful in a way Charlie had never seen, and it made him want to weep from something other than sadness. Another very memorable trip to the city ended with them pressing up against the pounding wall of a bathroom in a very hot, very dark night club, nearly putting on a show for all the blokes taking a piss.

They decided to spend Christmas at home, and had a nice dinner consisting of mainly potatoes and stuffing, the sleepy snow weighing heavily on the roof and the ground outside. It was dark when they went back into the bedroom and stripped as quickly was possible, holding and warming one another, their cocks pressed up against each other, sending trills of pleasure throughout Charlie's body. Then they were thrusting, rutting against each other, their mouths connected and moans escaping loudly and frequently. Then Draco stilled and broke the kiss, panting.

"Charlie, I—I want to… I want you to…" he sputtered, pressing his forehead to Charlie's. "I… I want you… inside… inside of me."

Charlie felt as if someone had kicked his stomach out of his body. They hadn't done this before yet, and he had rather thought Draco didn't want to. Suddenly Charlie was harder now then he had ever been before, so achingly so that it nearly hurt, and a powerful feeling suffused throughout his chest, threatening to overtake him.

"Please," Draco whispered, and Charlie realized what the emotion was.

He nodded slowly and went to get the lubricant he had stored in his dresser, and his wand. Murmuring a protective spell, he threw his wand to the floor and began preparing Draco, very slowly. The blond squeezed his eyes closed and began to pant, his stomach trembling and his hands gripping the sheets. Charlie pressed his lips to Draco's cheek, and suddenly he was that otherworldly creature again, so beautiful and pale and offering himself, and Charlie murmured that it was all right. And it was. As Charlie slowly sunk into Draco and felt fingernails dig into his back and the man's scar-laced chest heaving beneath him, he kept murmuring that it was all right and to relax, that he wouldn't move until Draco was ready. And when he did begin to move, it was more than all right. And as his world shattered and as Draco dissolved below him, it was fantastic.

"That was brilliant," murmured the blonde man sleepily. "Hurt a bit, but it was brilliant."

...

It was late January. Draco was becoming more distant, if that were possible. It seemed that he was even trying to avoid Charlie, and barely talked. Charlie didn't understand; they had had sex now about four times, and each had been incredible. It frustrated him that they were now on the most intimate level possible and yet they were growing further apart. Draco was almost like a ghost, wandering the house quietly, slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed unless he moved something or touched Charlie. His anger seemed to have left him; he was almost listless now, melancholy to the point that it irritated Charlie instead of worrying him.

"So what is it?" he asked during a painfully quiet dinner. "Am I bad in bed? Do you want to go back to England? Am I just boring? What is it I'm doing wrong, Draco? Because I really can't figure it out." Draco said he didn't know what Charlie was talking about, and Charlie slammed his hand down on the table, immediately regretting it when angry tears formed in Draco's eyes.

"No. You're doing nothing wrong," he said in a low voice.

"Then what the hell _is_ it?!"

Draco took a deep breath. "Why are you with me?"

They sat for a moment in silence.

"Draco, what kind of question is that?" Charlie asked softly, looking at his companion's swiftly-crumbling face.

"I don't understand why you want me. I was in league with the Dark Lord, I am the son of a Death Eater," he said shakily. "I… for God's sake, Charlie. What I've done to your family. It's my fault that your brother's face was mauled. _My _fault. And I was on the side that m-murdered your other brother."

"Yes, I know, Draco. And I know why you did those things, and I don't fault you for them. You were on the wrong side, yes, but--"

"My family, Charlie. My family would have all been murdered if we didn't comply, we would have been murdered in our sleep," he babbled, eyes now dangerously close to tears.

"I understand. I would have done the same for my family."

"A-and they lived, and people in yours died, and look where trying to help my family got me!" he cried, face turning pink. "Look at where I am. I'm a beast! A horrid beast, a murderer, no better than fucking Greyback! How could you _possibly_ want to share a bed with me?" He began to talk incoherently, nearly in hysterics, and it was very much like how he had been the first night they brought him in to the Hospital Wings all those nights ago. Alarmed in the extreme, Charlie rose and grabbed Draco from his seat, pulling him into a tight embrace. The man's arms hung at his side limply and he sobbed into Charlie's shoulder. Charlie began to murmur something when Draco shoved him away, and began to take his shirt off, his eyes never leaving Charlie's face. When his torso was bare, he pointed to the scar on his shoulder.

"Do you see this?" he asked sneeringly, making Charlie flinch. "This was punishment for not being able to carry out my duties. For not being able to kill that fool Dumbledore. The Dark Lord wanted me dead for failing, but Snape stepped in and saved my sorry arse. My parents were devastated, and that… that was one of the most terrible things I've seen, watching them break like that. I got off light, considering, just cursed with fucking _lycanthropy_, courtesy of that filth Greyback." Draco was angry now, angry like Charlie had never seen him, his face red and eyes flashing. "Thought we could keep it secret, so I could still have a nice Pure-Blooded marriage and perhaps help our family to recover some social standing, if the Dark Lord was to lose. Obviously that plan went to hell." He clenched his teeth. "And now you're stuck with me! A pitiful _monster_!" Draco was panting, his chest heaving and his eyes wet with angry tears.

"No," breathed Charlie. He stepped closer. "No, Draco, you're not pitiful, and you're not a monster."

"Christ, Weasley, listen to yourself!" yelled Draco. "Think about that statement for a fucking second, will you?"

"I don't have to," muttered Charlie, gripping Draco's arm. "I blame you for nothing. You're a victim of circumstance, of difficult circumstances. We all are. We've all done things to be ashamed of, but you're ashamed of the wrong things, I think."

"Oh? And what the fuck should I _really_ be ashamed of, Weasley?"

"Of being a bastard, Malfoy, what else?" he said calmly, stroking his arm, and _Shit he's so thin again_. "You were forced to do those things for You-Know-Who, and the werewolf thing… well, there's no way you had any say in that. But you're being a right arse about it all, and you're making yourself miserable. I don't want you to be miserable, Draco. I want to see you happy, because frankly, that makes me happy." He pulled Malfoy in and held him close, feeling him breathe heavily. He grabbed his chin and tilted it, planting a gentle kiss on his lips.

"I fucking despise myself," Draco whispered unsteadily, sending a spear of pain right through Charlie's chest.

"I know," Charlie murmured, kissing Draco's cheeks softly, pressing their foreheads together. "You shouldn't."

Draco wrapped his arms around Charlie and buried his face in Charlie's shirt, crying in earnest now.

--

A/N: Am nearly finished with Pt II. Things should be coming along more quickly now.

p.s.: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!! c:


	4. Charlie, pt II

**II. Charlie**

**pt. 2**

Things were much better after that. Winter passed rather uneventfully, drifting by like a cloud and leaving snow behind. Draco had earned quite a lot from the Apothecary by the end of February, and bought a telly, which was quite a novelty for them. They made more insane trips to bars in Bucharest, dancing and drinking. And they had quite a lot of very satisfactory sex.

Winter melted into spring, which was mating season for the dragons and thus the most dangerous time of the year at work. He had the house stocked with plenty of burn salve and healing cream, and often came home too tired or scraped up to do much. So they would lay down on the sofa and fall asleep watching football or the news in a language they only half understood, limbs comfortably tangled within each other.

It was early summer when Charlie found the letter. That horrible letter. He'd had to stay home and do paperwork (as he had explained to Draco earlier, they didn't just play with the dragons all day, they actually _researched_ them and _yes_ they had to do paperwork and _yes_ they had to write reports from time to time). Draco was at work himself, so Charlie was home alone. A small breeze blew through the house, the open windows baptizing the cosy rooms in butter-colored light and the scent of earth. Charlie started to tidy things up a bit, as both he and Draco had a strong tendency to be slightly messy (which really meant that his mother would have a mental fit if she saw the state of the place). There, in the living room on a small table next to a pair of filthy gloves and last Tuesday's newspaper was an opened parcel. Seeing no harm in it, he opened the package and took out the item; a flask full of some sort of potion. A letter fell out, and of course he read it.

Then he read it again.

_Fuck_.

First it was disbelief, then it was anger. How _dare_ he. How could he have done something like this, right behind Charlie's back? _This needs a fucking explanation, that's certain enough, _he thought, slamming his fist onto the nearest door. Seething, he sat in the kitchen and waited for Draco to come home, slowly fuming and allowing the outrage to build wildly, unchecked. _This is ridiculous_, he thought, _waiting for him to show up. This is just like when mum would wait up so fucking late when me and Bill snuck out of the house and catch us when we came back in. Then she would hex us, and I _want_ to hex him, but I'm not his fucking mother, and fuck, this is so fucked up_.

He strolled in about two hours later, a newspaper in hand. Charlie was struck by how old Draco looked, which made Charlie forget his anger for a second and worry about the man's health, but then his fingers touched the letter by accident and a second swell of anger went through him. Draco froze when he walked into the kitchen, as if he sensed that something was amiss.

"What is this about?" asked Charlie coldly, motioning to the letter on the table. Draco scowled.

"Nothing," he grumbled. "I doesn't concern you anyway."

"DOESN'T CONCERN ME?" roared Charlie, propelled by a new sense of outrage. "Goddamnit, Draco! I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you, and this… why the _hell_ did you ask your parents to send you the Wolfsbane?!"

Draco's expression closed off. "And you still don't remember. Jesus fucking Christ, Weasley."

"Remember _what_?!"

"Remember that the government doesn't supply Wolfsbane to non-residents after a year."

There was a strained pause.

_Fuck._ He had forgotten.

"But… but couldn't you just buy the stuff from the Apothecary again? Or… couldn't _you_ make it yourself?" he asked defensively, refusing to concede.

"No, I couldn't make it my fucking self. I'm damn good at making a potion, but I'm not _that_ good. Even if I were, I don't make nearly enough money for ingredients. And you know full well that stuff the Apothecary makes is shite."

Charlie pursed his lips. "Then… why don't you ask someone else? A friend back in England?"

Draco looked like he wanted to hit him. "A friend _is_ making it. My parents have asked someone I went to school with to make it for me, Anthony Goldstein. And it's lucky, as a lot of other people had turned my parents down and all of our other, more competent friends are either dead or in prison." He looked down at Charlie, sneering. "So tell me, Weasley. Why are you _really_ angry?"

Charlie flushed and glanced at his hands, splayed out on the table.

"Why didn't you tell me your parents wanted you back?" he asked quietly.

Draco's expression was aloof, unchanging, and Charlie suddenly realized how easy it must have been for Ron to hate him for all those years. "It wasn't any of your concern. My parents wanted me home, and I didn't want to go. So I told them I had a house, a job, and didn't want to leave. They put up a fight but gave up in the end. The end. Why the hell are you giving me that look?"

"Because I'm supposed to know if something like this happens, it's my job to take--"

"I'm not a fucking invalid. It's not your job to take care of me. What's done is done. I have the Wolfsbane, and I get to stay."

"You still should have let me know, instead of going behind my back about it!"

"I want to stay, so I put up a fight and _now I get to stay_. What's done is done, so why do you even care about this?!"

"Because, Draco," said Charlie angrily, standing. "This could hurt you. I love you, and I don't want anything bad to happen. We've been through enough hell already…"

Draco stared at him, his eyes wide. And then Charlie realized what had just come out of his mouth, and then realized it was very true.

Before he could say anything else, Draco left the room.

...

Draco was angry for a while, and interrogated him constantly. He demanded explanations and reasons, and Charlie just gave them, saying "I love you" as often as he could anyway. That continued for a bit, and led to fighting, seeing as Charlie was still sore about the letter, and Draco questioning _his_ motives was a bit tactless, all things considered.

Then Draco insisted that he wasn't going to say it back, and that Charlie could just suffer with his unrequited love, that it was punishment for being a Weasley and a Gryffindor. But when he had Draco on his back, his knees hooked under Charlie's elbows, his back arching, arching, and cries escaping from his mouth, Charlie could see the shadow of the words on Draco's lips, and that was enough. For now, at least.

And as the summer went on, Draco seemed more lighthearted, more his age, though the crease between his eyebrows and sharp jaw made him look older than his nineteen years. He joked and teased and acted like a bit of a prick. He brought home presents (mostly biscuits), and grew his hair out. They visited clubs occasionally, and went out to dinner once or twice. They drank and laughed and listened to Quidditch, watched football. They argued and made bets and rode their brooms around the countryside. They had sex in every single room in the house. And Draco seemed better, as Charlie ran his fingers along the smooth back, gripping his hips and pounding into him until that overwhelming release. Seemed better as they were out in the field that they flew about that first time, bathed in afternoon light, Draco riding him and both of them muttering dirty things, and how afterward they checked each other for insects and ended up fucking again.

But Draco wasn't better. He still had a difficult time during full moons, often crying the day after whenever he thought Charlie couldn't hear him. Once or twice Charlie tried to talk to him about it, but was met with a stony silence. And the fact that Draco still suffered from his 'incident' became horribly apparent the night that they went out to the dragon keepers' pub and ordered supper, Charlie savouring it until he looked up across the table at Draco. The blonde's face was very red, and his eyes were bulging, looking wet and panicked. Charlie glanced down at his plate and his stomach dropped. It was lamb; he hadn't even realized they'd been eating meat. Tears began to fall out of Draco's eyes, and his mouth was clamped shut as he stood up and nearly ran out the door. Charlie took money out of his pockets and slammed it onto the table, getting up and leaving. As he opened the front door and the cool night air brushed gently against him, he heard retching.

Charlie Apparated them home, and Draco vomited for hours, in between crying and yelling. He was a fairly pathetic sight, and Charlie comforted as well as he could, rubbing his back and listening to his desolate stream of words as he sobbed. Draco fell asleep on the sofa, facing the wall.

And for the next few days he refused to eat anything, and went back to his state of perpetual silence. Charlie was agitated by Draco's emotional withdrawal, but then felt ashamed for being agitated; the man couldn't help it, and to be annoyed was selfish.

He coaxed Draco into eating a salad, and Draco ate it timidly, finishing about half before looking like he was about to be sick. Charlie took his hand and kissed his palm, looking into his eyes, trying to pour all of his love and assurance into this one kiss. They made love that night, slowly, and when they were sated and coiled into each other, Charlie told Draco that he loved him. And after a long while, when he was half-asleep, he heard whispered into the darkness, mingling into the inky night like smoke:

"Love you too, Charlie. Love you…"

...

When summer faded, they learned that their friend, the werewolf who had helped Draco, had been killed. It was right after the full moon that they found out, and Draco was in another one of his moods. Neither of them cried; they were just very quiet. Especially considering the circumstances, it gave them much to think and worry about. Draco barely spoke, and when Charlie brought up the topic again a few days later, the blond merely said "It's always something."

Draco wasn't quite the same after that. He wasn't as loud and didn't want to go out or play Quidditch as often. They drank more, they fucked more, they smoked in the kitchen. Charlie let Draco top a few times, which was actually very pleasurable, and which Draco curiously seemed to have some experience with before.

Bill, Fleur, and the baby visited in October, which was very awkward at the beginning. As soon as the young family bustled in the door, little Victoire began screaming, Fleur apologizing and asking of there was a place in the house where she could change the baby. Charlie gave a small nod towards the guest room. Bill hugged Charlie and gave Draco a handshake, his expression grim. Fleur and the babbling baby emerged from the hallway again, and the tiny blond girl was set upon the floor, smiling and crawling and talking nonsense. Bill pulled Charlie discreetly into the kitchen while Fleur gave the baby a toy, and murmured to him quietly to avoid any eavesdropping.

"You're shagging him?" he muttered.

Charlie blanched. "What? What would make you--"

"I can just tell. You looked like you wanted to tear his clothes off and ravish him like some harlot. Oh, and the fact that you've been living with him for a year was a fairly big clue, too."

"Don't be such a wanker," said Charlie sourly.

"Fuck, Charlie, that's _Lucius Malfoy's _son," said Bill seriously.

"I'm aware of that, Bill, thanks," answered Charlie. There was a noise, and they both looked about nervously, but nothing was there.

"Well, who else knows?" demanded Bill in a whisper, turning back to him.

"I'm not sure…" muttered Charlie. "Mum knows, and if his mum is anything like I assume, she knows too. Some of my mates at the reserve know, and…"

"What about Percy? Ginny? Ron?"

Charlie pursed his lips. "No, I decided I didn't want them to know, since they're… acquainted with him. I haven't mentioned him in my letters to them at all… but George might have figured it out." Bill sighed.

"Jesus Christ… I just hope you know what you're doing." He glanced towards the door leading to the living room. "Will he be all right with the baby?"

"Don't see why not," replied Charlie steadily.

Bill looked at his feet and paused for a moment. "You know," he said in a low voice. "I can't be bitter towards him. It's his fault that Greyback attacked me, but… Greyback got him, too." He grimaced, and Charlie was at a loss for words, feeling a little sad, but also a little relieved; there likely wouldn't be any fighting between those two. Then Bill left and Charlie followed, entering the next room to find Draco and Fleur glaring at each other, the baby happily playing with a boot on the floor between them.

That night was awkward too, Bill and Fleur taking the guest bedroom, Draco and Charlie retiring to their own room. There was a small lamp on, causing shadows to cut across their bodies like knives. By this time they would normally be having sex or something of the sort, but were too self-conscious of the noise they would make. So they kissed and went to sleep, Charlie idly wondering when the last time was that he fell asleep with clothes on.

The rest of the visit, though, was full of surprises. Draco and Fleur didn't seem to like each other much, and Charlie suspected it was because they were so similar; beautiful, proud, and a bit manipulative. Not that these were necessarily bad things, Charlie mused, watching them avoid each other. But they got along as best they could, and for that both Charlie and Bill were grateful. The baby was strange to have around at first, but Charlie adored her. Her hair was already a soft blonde, and sat atop her head in wisps; her cheeks were a lovely pink, and though she looked like her mother, those brown eyes belonged distinctly to her father. She was a sweet child and laughed often, making the Charlie laugh too. And he wasn't the only one who had taken a liking to Victoire; he had caught Draco playing with her a few times, tickling her belly and making funny voices, the baby laughing madly.

And later that evening, when they were getting ready to go eat at the tamers' pub, Bill approached Charlie, who was alone in his room, putting socks on.

"You love him," Bill said.

Charlie glanced up, a bit startled. "Yes."

Bill nodded and smiled softly, as if he had just made up his mind about something. Then he went back to the guest room, leaving his younger brother baffled, with half a sock on.

And when the small family left the next morning, Draco and Charlie said their goodbyes, Charlie giving them hugs and a toy dragon to Victoire, Draco shaking each of their hands, including the baby's, and Charlie observed twin smirks on both Fleur and Draco's faces. For some reason, that made him content. As soon as they were alone, they shucked all the clothes from their body while going to their room, touching each other, touching, and shagging for the rest of the day; Charlie gripping Draco's hip and cock, Draco bracing himself against the headboard, each panting and crying out, collapsing, and later humming contentedly.

...

Two years had passed. Two blissful years, in which Charlie was promoted, adopted a cat, fell the hardest he had ever fallen for anyone, and became convinced that _this_ was it, that he would spend the rest of his life with this man That Was Final Thank You and Goodnight. And then he got another letter.

_Mr Weasley,_

_I would first like to say that I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for my son. The consequences of his actions that dreadful night would have been catastrophic, regardless of what others have said. I realize that he has also suffered psychologically, and that you have been a very important factor in his healing process. You have welcomed him into your home, fed and clothed him, and have truly become one of my son's most valuable friends, and I thank you for that._

_However, I must say that the time has come for Draco to come back home. Romania, though beautiful, I am sure, is not where he belongs. It is time for him to settle, and to re-establish himself in Wizarding Britain. He must fulfil his familial duties as a Malfoy, a noble line that has been one of the most prominent in the country for years. I know that you are aware of the joy that family brings and the importance in one's life it holds, and this is held nowhere truer than in our own family._

_So I must ask that Draco comes home, to his family. It has been made known to me that Draco has no intentions of returning, and has told my husband and I in the past that he would be staying in Romania indefinitely. However, I am forced, much against my will, to use all the resources I can to bring him back. It is regrettable to inform you that if Draco does not return to Britain, my husband and I will not be able to send him his medicine any longer. This is especially unfortunate because our supplier is the only one in the country who agreed to make it at all. All attempts to gain access to the Wolfsbane from someone here will be, unhappily, denied. I am also aware that Draco does not have access to Wolfsbane in Romania, and that the quality of the potion there is not as it is here. Therefore, for both his and your safety, I ask for his return._

_Should either of you refuse, it would sadden both I and my husband terribly. And we may have to take certain simple actions to persuade him to return. I believe a certain Mr. Potter and his department at the Ministry may be able to aid us, along with the corresponding department of the Romanian ministry. But of course, we will cross that bridge if we come to it._

_I once again thank you for being such a support to my son during his difficult ordeal, and I hope this can come to a quick conclusion._

_ Respectfully yours,_

_ Narcissa Malfoy_

Everything was playing before his eyes slowly. The first time he and Draco had made love. When they had gone to see the dragons. Laughing and drinking at the pub. Kissing in the pouring rain after they had flown for two hours, wet and fresh. Fighting about stupid, trivial things. When they attempted to have a full conversation in Romanian and failed miserably. When Charlie was ill and Draco brought in soup, kissed him, and said "I love you" for the first time. His heart dropped, past his stomach, past his feet, right onto the floor with a dull thud.

This was it, then? There was no possible way he could get out of it. She hadn't left any loopholes. It was either give him back, or no Wolfsbane. And if he flat-out refused, or lied to her, saying he would go, but stayed anyway… she would be willing to contact the fucking Auror offices in both Britain and Romania. And it was highly probable that they would make him go back, someway, somehow they would, and they were trapped, they were being forced apart and…

Draco would have to go, though, wouldn't he? An ultimatum; either give him back, or ensure his mental breakdown. And _no_, Draco wasn't better yet, he would never be better. The full moon was much easier to handle now than it had ever been, but that didn't mean it wasn't _painful_, and Draco had been having nightmares lately, waking up trembling. And if he didn't have Wolfsbane? The man still got anxious if the potion was even a day late, always looking at the windows and tapping his fingers impatiently, his eyes flashing with anxiety. He was still frightened of the Wolf, and Charlie didn't blame him; unchecked, the Wolf had destroyed a man and damaged a family, in only a few hours. Charlie was frightened of the Wolf, too—but at least it wasn't a _part_ of him.

Draco walked in the door, home from work, his hair windswept, looking at a piece of parchment and kicking the door shut behind him.

"Mail. Your brother's wedding," he said, tossing the parchment to Charlie and going to the cupboard. "Fuck, I'm starved. Do we have any biscuits?"

Charlie was silent, and idly examined the invitation. So Percy actually grew the balls to propose to Audrey, did he? He vaguely remembered his brother's nervousness expressed in the few letters they exchanged, fawning over the woman and lamenting the fact that he was such a crap boyfriend to her. It was painfully obvious that he was mad about the girl, and that he was almost certainly not a crap boyfriend at all; a little obsessed, maybe. Charlie was glad for him.

"What's this?" asked Draco, picking up the letter and skimming it. Then he grew very still, and appeared to be reading it carefully, his face growing more disquieted with every passing second. Finally he set it down.

"That bitch," he spat, disgusted, pulling a fag out of his pocket and lighting it.

"Draco," murmured Charlie, not looking at him. "You know you'll have to go."

There was a tense silence.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"Draco, listen," said Charlie grimly. "Our hands are tied here. Either you go home, or you don't get Wolfsbane."

"So?" said Draco severely. "We can find a supplier, no problem. She can't make me go back."

"No, we can't find a supplier," said Charlie, clenching his fists. "Your mother made it painfully obvious that she'll prevent anyone in Britain from sending it to you. And you've told me about your family's connections in Italy and France, so don't even try and give me shite about getting any from there. Your parents will have made sure that's not an option."

"You don't bloody know that!" yelled Draco, startling Charlie. "I'll find someone! And if I can't find anyone, I'll make it myself! I have money, I—"

Charlie sighed. "What you make in a month isn't enough to pay for the ingredients. Your employers will notice if you've stolen from them, too, so don't even think about it."

"I'll find a fucking way, all right? Don't worry about it," said Draco loudly, looking away, his hair falling into his face.

"You know you won't, Draco. And even if you do—"

"Then I just won't take the fucking potion! For Christ's sake, Charlie, just ward the fucking house and let me run about outside!"

He almost laughed at that. "Draco, don't be stupid. You still have an awful time after your transformation, even _with_ the potion. Don't even bother to deny that, because you do. And you've been having nightmares for the past six fucking months, and I know what they're bloody about. Not take the Wolfsbane? You'll put yourself over the edge again, Draco. That's not going to happen."

"Shut up!" he screamed. "Shut up, Charlie, I swear! I'll just learn to manage it, I don't care! I won't take the potion and I'll fucking stay anyway!"

Charlie slammed his fist on the table. "And what happens when the entire Auror Department comes after you? You're not legal here, you know that, Draco! You'll be deported!" he yelled, his voice wavering.

Draco's face suddenly took on a new edge that Charlie had never seen; an ugly, hateful look that chilled him to his marrow. There was a strained silence, and then he spoke. "Why do you want me to leave?"

Charlie felt his eyes widen, and he stared back. "W-what? You can't possibly think—"

"Fuck you," Draco sneered. He took a drag and walked to the counter, grabbing the flask full of Wolfsbane in it. "It's the full tonight. I'll see you in the morning. Hopefully you'll be less of an idiot by then."

"But it's barely five o'clock! Draco, we need to talk about this!"

"Piss off," Draco muttered bitterly, turning around and going to the small bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Charlie put his head in his hands, counted to ten, and let the tears that had been building in his eyes slowly roll down his cheeks, making angry trails across his face.

...

There was whining and scratching at the bedroom door, but Charlie refused to let him in. The cat, Nellie, was lying on Draco's pillow, her tail lazily batting against Charlie's ear. He felt horrid; the contents of Narcissa's letter buzzed around his brain, and he tried desperately to find a way out of it, but could not. He couldn't count the amount of times he had gone through this in the past two years, different ways the Malfoys could possibly try to take Draco back and how they could prevent it in each circumstance. Sometimes they would be simple, cruel, and unreasonable, like a wicked stepmother's plan to make someone miserable; something out of a children's' tale. Or sometimes the scenario would be something like this, a terrible ultimatum in which every side was morally ambiguous, he and Draco against the world. And somehow, they would find a way to make it work, and it would all be perfect in the end. A collage of fucking sunshine and rainbows, with lots of sex thrown in for good measure.

The Malfoys had made sure that none of that would be possible.

He felt his chest tighten, and couldn't help the tears from spilling down his face once again. If this really was the end of their time together, how would he ever be able to look at the man without wanting to have an emotional meltdown? He was in love, so in love that it hurt, made his toes curl, made his heart want to burst out of his chest and scatter across the world, falling to the earth in beautiful, glinting shards. Except it wasn't the pieces of his heart that were crashing to the ground, it was his entire world, being torn up into ugly, jagged bits and deafening him on impact.

And if _he_ cried, would Draco cry? The man hadn't cried since the second, and last time that he accidentally ate meat about a year ago. And Charlie hadn't cried (discounting this afternoon) since… what, the funeral?

The door opened, and the wolf came in, snuffling at the ground. Nellie jumped up and hid under the bed, and Draco sneezed. Charlie bade the beast to come over, and patted the thing's furry head. Draco jumped up onto the bed (which Charlie hated because he had white fur and it got all over everything), and pressed his wet nose against Charlie's arm. They fell asleep like that, and when Draco painfully transformed early that morning, he pulled the blankets over himself and tucked his head into the crook of his lover's arm.

...

Charlie had him grudgingly convinced, and assured him that they would meet up as often as possible. They set the date for Draco to go back to Malfoy Manor in a little over two months; they would attend Percy's wedding, and Draco would return to his parents two days after. The man hadn't shed a tear yet, although while Charlie was trying to explain it all Draco had screamed and yelled and even thrown a few punches; Charlie, meanwhile, cried like a baby after almost every time they had sex.

Draco commented that it would be funny, if there weren't a reason. Charlie only pulled him closer.

...

The trip to England was easy, considering the amount of stuff that they had to bring with them. Draco filled two trunks with all of his things, and levitating them cross-country was difficult, Charlie thanking every god he could remember for Portkeys. During the journey, Draco had been very quiet and painfully serious, probably due to the nature of the trip and the fact that the full moon had been the previous night. To lighten the mood, Charlie reverted back to the little 'game' they had played to make the past few weeks bearable, inventing ways in which they could see each other regularly. Some of them were sensible and they planned on using, some of them were ridiculous and rather funny, and some had started off as sensible but ended up being a bit sad. As they passed through Versailles and stopped for lunch, Charlie munched on his salad and began to remind Draco of the sensible ideas, and held his hand discreetly underneath the table.

"I have an idea," muttered Draco quietly, poking at a tomato with his fork. "I could marry a Pureblood woman, get her up the duff, have my heir, divorce the bitch and then move back in with you."

They were quiet for a few minutes.

"And your 'heir'?" Charlie murmured uncomfortably, not looking at him.

"My parents can raise him."

There was another long, uncomfortable pause.

"That's not funny, Draco."

"I know."

...

They arrived at Ottery St. Catchpole late in the evening. Charlie breathed in the night air, taking in the cool blues and blacks that were painted onto the grounds and house by some unseen hand, fireflies blinking like lovely earth-bound stars, the yellow light from the house pouring out through the windows onto the grass.

He muttered something reassuring to Draco as they went through the gate and up the path to the house, though the reassurance was more for himself. His nerves were playing about his body like ill-behaved children, and he was surprised that he was still carrying the luggage, considering how sweaty his hands were.

He opened the door and greeted them all; his parents, Ron, George, and Ginny. He gave his mum a big kiss on the cheek, and shook his dad's hand; regardless of all that had happened, they still looked the same as ever. George returned his handshake firmly, and Charlie was beyond pleased to see that there was a small hint of humour back in his eyes; not as much as it had been, but it was there. Ron was tall and still a bit lanky, but seemed to have grown into himself and possessed much more self-confidence than he had the last Charlie saw him. And Ginny, his baby sister, looked so grown up, and she gracefully accepted his saying so with a small 'Thank You'. It unnerved Charlie, so he ruffled her hair, and suddenly she was a kid again, sullen and dishevelled.

He motioned for Draco to come in, and could tell from his stance that he was nervous. Looking back and forth between his lover and his family, he could see the distinct shock in Ron and Ginny's faces, and the suspicion in the others'.

"Welcome to the Burrow, dear," said Charlie's mum, getting to her feet and taking Draco's hands in hers. Draco thanked her weakly, and she said something about putting things upstairs and dinner. Charlie showed him the way up to his old room, opening the door and bracing himself against the strangeness of being back inside it. They set the things down on the floor, and Draco told him that he wasn't up for going back downstairs. Charlie went down for dinner, and his mum offered to bring tea up, which Charlie thought was very sweet of her. The meal was quiet and somewhat awkward, and all conversation of 'Charlie's guest' was danced around delicately. The family was undoubtedly unhappy about Draco being there, and Ron's scowl only made it all the more obvious.

When his mother brought the tea up, Draco was asleep on the bed, lying on his side with the covers pulled up to his chin. She set the tea down.

"Are you going to be all right?" she whispered to Charlie.

"Yes, mum. Thank you," he said softly. She patted his cheek and shot another suspicious look at Draco, then left. Charlie shut the door and sat on the bed next to the tired body. He rubbed his face with his hands, exhausted.

"So," murmured Draco, startling Charlie. "Who hates you more because I'm here? Your family or me?"

...

The next morning, they woke up late. Draco was mildly panicked, saying how this was wrong and he shouldn't be here and everyone hated him… or something like that. Charlie personally thought he wasn't really far off the mark, but reassured him otherwise and kissed him gently. Suddenly they heard a great clanging, like something fell down the stairs. They looked towards the stairwell, but there was nothing there. Shrugging, Charlie got up and stretched, pulling Draco up with him.

They headed downstairs and helped Molly prepare for the wedding. As they went about the house doing small things, Charlie noticed how difficult it was not to _touch_ Draco. He was so used to it at home—small things, a brush of a hand against a hip, fingers touching the small of the back, 'friendly' arse-pinching. Charlie's mother hadn't said anything outright, but he was fairly certain that none of _that_ was allowed.

And it wasn't that he was gay. Charlie had always known, really, and he never questioned it. True, he liked to keep it quiet, but his mother had been fine with it when he told her at nineteen, and his father was all right in the end. No, it was that he was with Lucius Malfoy's son, and the fact that the man was in the Burrow at all was reason enough not to even look at him.

Which was also very difficult, as he was very thin again.

Dinner that night was one of the most painfully awkward experiences of Charlie's life. Ron's girlfriend Hermione and Harry Potter were there, and mostly just looked pointedly away from Draco, making small conversation with each other. Ron glared at Draco the entire time, and they both looked extremely uncomfortable. Percy kept shooting Charlie nervous smiles while tearing his napkin, and Bill kept raising his eyebrows suggestively and smirking, acting deliberately irritating. Molly kept trying to start conversation, but it didn't work. Finally it was George who stood up and announced Percy's bachelor party. Ron, Harry, Percy, and George made to leave. Charlie asked Draco if he wanted to come, but Draco unsurprisingly said he would prefer not to.

The men went to the pub and everyone save Charlie got smashed, dancing with the local girls and singing loudly at both appropriate and inappropriate moments. Going back to the Burrow, they were slurring and Ron almost got in a fistfight with Percy, but Charlie broke them apart, knowing that Harry and George weren't going to do anything as they were egging the two on. The group returned to the house, and Charlie walked up to his room, seeing Draco on the bed reading. He closed the door.

"You're drunk," Draco said.

Charlie chuckled. "No, I just had a few beers. I'm not drunk."

"Yes you are," said Draco accusatorily. "I've seen you drunk, and you're most definitely drunk."

Charlie grinned, tugging the sleeves of his shirt, beginning to pull it off. "And if I _were_ drunk? What you do, Mr. Malfoy?"

All of a sudden he felt a hot mouth at his neck and hands pulling, pulling his clothes off, pulling him down to the bed, pulling his hips up.

"_If_ you were drunk, Mr. Weasley," he drawled. "I would fuck you. I have my wand in my hand. Tell me: are you drunk?"

He felt a hand brush his nipple. "_Yes,_" he hissed. Draco muttered a few charms and a Silencing Spell, and soon he could feel the man inside of him, pounding and taking and feeling and loving and _fuck_—

They were tired and sticky. Draco cleaned them with a lazy flick of his wand, and they fell asleep, folded around each other.

...

And then later, when it was nearly dawn, they awoke again, and quietly began to kiss tentatively, tongues gently probing, hands roaming. Then it became more heated, yet still unhurried. Wordlessly, Charlie began to prepare Draco, listening to his sighs and groans. Then he slipped in and Draco's legs were around Charlie's waist, his hands clutching the sheet as if it were the only thing that held him to the world. _Maybe it is_, thought Charlie manically as he began to speed up, panting.

And then it was over, and they were sticky and sated once more. Draco kissed Charlie's face, murmuring _I love you_ over and over. Charlie carded his fingers through the soft blond hair, and fell asleep.

...

"Oi! You two! Get up!"

Charlie sat up, panicking. Ginny was standing in the doorway, her expression furious, looking too much like their mother for comfort. And _shit_, Charlie and Draco were naked.

"Oh God… Ginny! This isn't… this is _not_…" he stammered, wildly searching for some reason _why_ he was naked in bed with another person that had nothing to do with sex. But before he could come up with an excuse, Ginny interrupted him.

"Charlie, you and I both know perfectly well that this _is _what it looks like. Look, you're my brother, and I love you, no matter who you're shagging. Even if it _is_ Malfoy. I don't care _what_ you do in your private life, but right now you need to get _up_ and get _downstairs_ before mum bites my head off, all right? And that means _both _of you!"

And she walked away. Charlie began to grumble something about nosy little sisters, but was shocked when Draco began to laugh. And it wasn't a half-hearted laugh, not a snide laugh; it was a genuine laugh, and when he was done Charlie kissed him hard, holding the back of his head and swallowing the new peals of laughter that began to come up again.

...

The wedding was beautiful. It was much like Bill's, except there were a few Muggle guests; they couldn't have as many magical decorations, and all the ones that were actually there were quickly explained away. The bride was really very pretty (which, thought Charlie guiltily, was surprising), and Percy looked as if he would either wet himself or die of happiness. The reception was a very good time, and Charlie relaxed with a few drinks, he and Draco sitting at a table with a few people they knew vaguely, watching people dance. Ginny had been eyeing them all night, probably looking for signs of their torrid romance. But both men had agreed that they didn't want to make a spectacle of themselves and would prefer to keep their relationship private, so all of their interactions were pointedly mundane.

It was nearing the end of the reception when Ginny came over. To Charlie's great surprise, she held her hand out to Draco.

"I'm stealing your boyfriend, Charlie," she said cheekily, winking.

Charlie grinned. "Go on," he said. Draco looked apprehensive, but before he could protest, she pulled him out of his seat, her arms alarmingly strong from playing Quidditch.

"Don't worry, it's just for one dance," she said, giggling and pulling the man into the throng of people. Charlie watched them dance, Ginny bouncing merrily about and Draco moving with her, looking very amused. The night sky was twinkling with far-off stars, and as Charlie watched Draco he saw the man transform into that ethereal being again, looking handsome and otherworldly, moving to the music, his white-blonde hair glinting in the light, his pale skin and sharp angles made beautiful in the twilight.

He was not lost, nor was he sad. He was happy.

This was going to be horrible.

...

A/N: Yes, so that's the end of Charlie's part. For some reason, he was difficult for me to write, but I am very satisfied. I'm sorry it took so long to finish for being such a short part. I'm about mid-way through the next one. Thank you to my beta, Ferosh. And thank you for the reviews, they're very encouraging.


	5. Draco, pt I

**III. Draco**

**Part I**

_Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong._

The wolf opened its jaws in a farce of a grin.

_SOMETHING IS WRONG, SOMETHING IS WRONG, SOMETHING IS WRONG._

A thick rope of saliva dripped to the ground. The beast's eyes flashed dangerously, and his haunches tightened, preparing to spring.

_SOMETHINGISFUCKINGWRONGSOMETHINGISWRONGFUCKFUCKFUCK._

A tickle at the back of the wolf's mind was beginning to bloom forth, into the rest of its consciousness. Something wasn't right. Its paws were gone, replaced with these strange, hairless—

_HOLYGODSOMETHINGISFUCKINGWRONGSOMETHINGISWRONG._

Hands. A man's hands, connected to a man's bare body. And feet. He knew those, and tried to stand up, shakily. Then he realized, remembered.

He was full.

The vomiting began and didn't stop until the world went black.

He woke up, and saw his parents. They looked awful. His father, so weak after Azkaban, looked the worst Draco had ever seen him, which was so fucking unfair. His dad had always been the smartest, strongest, most magnificent man on the planet until the Dark Lord came back and fucked everything up. Now he just looked small and defeated, and if Draco looked just like his father as everyone said, would that mean that _he_ looked small and defeated, too? That couldn't be true. And there was mother, sobbing the hardest Draco had ever seen, and he had seen that quite a lot since father was taken away. He felt immense anger at seeing his mother crying again, crying horribly; he wanted to sit up (because he was laying down, and he didn't know why he was laying down, and where exactly _was_ he again?) and tell his mother that it was all right, to stop, that he would kill whatever brute made her cry and hurt her like this. No one would ever make her this upset again.

Except for some reason he couldn't seem to say anything, and there was this horrible noise coming from somewhere, and it was so fucking _loud_, sounded like some wounded animal, and was that what was making his mother cry? He wanted to shout for someone to kill the miserable thing, except his voice wasn't working, even though it was. Then he felt strong hands on him, and knew the truth behind everything that was going on and at the same time didn't, and it was just so _loud_ and his head hurt and he felt like throwing up again but did and didn't know why and the thoughts started to come to him and _Oh God Oh God Oh God the taste_-- and then it went black again.

..............................

_Draco is five years old. He's fallen down the stairs and is wailing, the loudest he can ever remember crying. A grubby old elf comes and tries to touch him, but he swats the thing away. He's upset. He wants his mummy._

_She comes down the stairs, light and pretty, her golden hair surrounding her face, currently wearing the most frightening expression Draco's ever seen. She shouldn't be afraid, she's mummy. Mummies and daddies are never scared; they're big people. The creepies and crawlies in the dark never make them cry in their beds, the old ghoul in the wine cellar never makes them shriek in fear. Yesterday daddy smashed the scariest spider Draco's ever seen, and mummy laughed. They were brave._

_But mummy doesn't look brave, she looks scared. All of a sudden Draco is being clutched to his mother's breast, her perfume making his nose itch. Her clothes were so warm, he never wants to let go._

"_Draco, oh, darling, are you all right?" she asks. Her voice sounds funny._

"_I falled, mummy," he sniffles. "My knee hurts."_

_She kisses the top of his head. "Let's go to the nursery, sweetheart, and I'll fix your dear little knees… we'll get you some chocolates, too, isn't that nice?" He is being carried to the nursery, still wrapped like a slimy old octopus around his mummy. "And say 'fell', Draco, not 'falled'... Merlin, don't ever scare me like that again…"_

_..........................................._

Later he heard familiar voices, and his throat hurt. There was a faint tinge of metal in his mouth, but nothing was left inside of him, just bile. He felt empty, hollow, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He had eaten a man. Devoured him. He was a monster, a beast, fucking deplorable above all else. And there was no way he would be let off, no way he would even _want _to be let off. They would execute him. The Malfoy line, ended right there because of him. _Fine_, he thought numbly. _Let them kill me._ It's what he deserved. It's what they all deserved.

During the next few days, the voices around him—his mother, his father, others—talked to him, telling him things or telling each other things or talking about the weather or Quidditch or dead people; it didn't much matter, as he could barely understand what they were saying to begin with. He could still taste blood in his mouth and that was too much in the forefront of his mind for anything else to hold his particular attention. Everything around him blended and smeared together, nothing particularly discernible beyond that terrible tang of metal.

Once, when he was feeling particularly alert, he tried to explain it to his mother. He kept telling her that he ate a man, and that he could taste the blood. He'd eaten someone and tasted them and chewed them, and why couldn't she understand that? She kept explaining things away, crying, and reassuring him. And Draco kept trying to tell her, that it was all beside the _point_, that he had _killed_ someone. But there wasn't really a point, was there? It was just the same, a terrible mantra, _I ate a man, I ate a man, I ate a man_. He wished he could say something more to explain himself, but he couldn't think of anything, except that _he _had eaten a man, he had _eaten_ a man, he had eaten a _man_…

His head still hurt.

............................................

Hands were gripping his shoulders, patting his cheek.

"Look at me, darling," he heard, like a foghorn through thick, soupy mist. He saw blue eyes. His mother's. "You're going away for a bit of a rest, I'm afraid. Don't worry, darling. You'll be safe and get better, and when you come back everything will be good as new."

He decided he didn't care, and allowed his eyes to roll back in his head as his lids closed.

"Draco, Draco, please listen to me," she said, her voice quivering, fading into the white noise that had been constant for ages now.

"Draco, son," said a deep voice, his father's. "This is Mr. Weasley." Draco could nearly hear his father's facial sneer as he pronounced the name—_Weeas-ley_. Draco almost smiled. "He will be taking you with him. On… holiday. Merlin, Narcissa, can he even hear us? He's not even…" and just like that, his father's voice faded into nothingness, too.

He was being jostled around and made to stand up, which he didn't like, much. They walked him downstairs, past the Great Hall where there were things wrapped in white sheets, all lined up in a row on the floor. He was confused, didn't know what they were, but his voice wouldn't work and he couldn't ask.

From there he couldn't remember anything until about noon, when he found himself seated at a table with two blokes talking animatedly in a foreign language. They hadn't noticed that he was looking around, and by the looks of it, they were in the Wizarding district of Berlin. Fucking _Berlin_. What the hell was he doing here? Father had taken him here once, when he was thirteen, to buy mother a sapphire ring; father had brought him to this very café, where they sat at the table and had tea, talked about Ministry politics and the other Pureblood families. It had been wonderful, one of the best memories he had ever had of he had his dad…

"Draco?" said a low, slightly familiar voice. "Do you want some lunch?" The mist slowly rolled back in.

And then he was in a house, and it was dark.

"…name's Charlie Weasley. This is my house we're in, and this is your room." He looked about. It was dark and cramped, a bed and desk crammed into the small space; the walls were white, seeming to glow in the dark. "You'll be staying with me until you're better, all right? The toilet's down the hall if you need it. Er… well, are you hungry?" Draco could feel his hands start to shake, and he looked up at the man. He tried to shake his head.

"No? But you've only had breakfast today." Which he didn't remember. "Are you sure you're not hungry?" Draco took one last glance at the man; broad and probably shorter than him, wild red hair. A fucking Weasley. His parents had clearly lost their minds, but at least that made them three for three. Draco looked away. The Weasley chattered on about some ludicrous nonsense, and the blond tried to tune it out and fall asleep as he sat on this dark little bed, but it didn't work. Sleep didn't come for hours.

The next morning the man had tried to make him eat, but just looking at the food made him sick. He was given free reign of the house during the day, but he mostly lay on the bed, attempting to sleep. It was difficult; he wasn't tired, but he had no will to remain awake. There were no memories of what he had done in that blissful blackness, no way to be reminded of his guilt. Staring up at the paste-coloured ceiling did nothing to quell the faint clenching in his abdomen that had been there since the last full.

'Course, it was just his fucking luck that the nightmares began that night, too. Horrible claws tearing at him, teeth grinding his bones and piercing his skin, his face, and finally something holding him still, leaving him unable to move or get away until he had given up, allowed himself to collapse and squeeze his eyes shut, the words _You won, you won, you won_ repeating themselves, on the tip of his tongue.

.....................................................

Draco tried to answer Weasley back, a few times. A 'yes' here and a 'no' there seemed to please him, which pleased Draco. Did the ginger-headed man not know what Draco had done? Ah, but he did; about a week or so after Draco had arrived the man sprung the Wolfsbane thing on him. No, Draco didn't want to. He refused. Weasley was angry and yelled, and it was fucking scary. It made Draco feel like shit, so he started crying, ignoring all of Weasley's futile attempts to 'comfort' him. Bloody fuck.

He drank the damn potion anyway. Killing a Death Eater was all right, but killing a Weasley-- they would have his hide cut off and strung along the side of the Minister of Magic's wall in a heartbeat.

................................................................

_Draco is twelve years old. He's fallen off the sodding broom again, and his dad looks disappointed. This upsets Draco._

"_I bought you these brooms for a reason, Draco. Let's not forget that," his father murmurs in his most dangerous tone._

"_I know, I know dad. I'm sorry."_

"_You know how to fly, do you not? Have you already forgotten?" Draco squirms at the memory of stealing one of his dad's brooms and nearly colliding into a Muggle helicopter a few years back. He had bragged to Potter about it last year, but it hadn't been something he was proud of. Bloody Potter. Confusing as hell, always got under his skin…_

_His dad starts in on another lecture. "You're a Pureblood, Draco. A Malfoy. Flying comes naturally to Pureblood Wizards. There is no reason for you to be beaten by Potter. None. At. All." His father gives him another stern look. Draco suddenly feels desperate._

"_Bet I could beat Potter in a race. Running, I mean." It the one thing he's good at. He could outrun anyone. He expects his father to smirk and agree, but instead the imposing man looks furious._

"_Footraces are for filthy Muggles, Draco. Some of them even do it as a career, which is utterly preposterous. You don't want to be like a Muggle, do you?" he says, glaring icily at his son._

_Draco is bitter, but he understands. Talking about footraces was pure impudence. His father just spent a bloody fortune buying seven of these stupid brooms. Just because Draco wanted to beat Potter. Draco can't fail him. He shakes his head._

"_Then get back on that broom and fly."_

_..........................................................._

He was in the bathroom, wrapped in a blanket. He remembered being the wolf, vaguely, but how and why he was standing on the cold tile floor in front of the toilet was a mystery. Shrugging the blanket off, he turned the shower on, stepping carefully underneath the steady stream of hot water. The warmth felt good against his sore muscles and joints, and he though briefly about having a quick wank. It was too bad his prick had been practically non-functional since he was bitten. He felt a little ridiculous when he had attempted once or twice, as if he could possibly do something as trivial as wanking when there was all this monumental shit to deal with; he would stop within a few seconds, feeling stupid and dirty. Scowling and scrubbing his eyes, he shut off the shower and wrapped the blanket around himself again, shivering as the cold air hit his skin. He shuffled out of the loo and into the kitchen, freezing his arse off, and sat down at the table, ignoring the food that was pushed towards him.

Weasley sighed and looked at him. "You're far too thin, so we'll not be having meat in this household any longer. I know you haven't eaten it anyway… but there won't be any in the house. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable."

Draco felt as if something that had been clutching his chest had suddenly let go, and Charlie smiled. He wondered if it had shown on his face.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You… I have a friend who was once in the a situation very similar to yours. I would like you to meet him."

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Meet another werewolf? No way in hell._

"I don't want to," Draco said quietly.

"Well, you'll have to, dammit. You're not well, Draco, and--"

"I don't want to!"

"Look, he can help. Would you listen? It would be good for you to--"

"No!"

"—have someone to talk to! No, don't interrupt!" Charlie stood up, looking furious again. "You don't have a bloody choice, Draco, you're going to do it. It's for your own fucking good, and I don't care if you don't want to." With that, he turned and left the house, leaving an empty silence behind him.

................................................................

_What a fucking ridiculous moustache_, Draco thought as the old werewolf entered Charlie's parlour. That was the first thing Draco noticed about him. The second was that the beast's shoes were covered in mud, making Draco crinkle his nose.

"Nicolae, hello. Thanks for coming, really, I appreciate it. This," Charlie said genially, nodding towards the blond, "is Draco. He's… well, he's a werewolf, and… well, yes. I'll just… er… get some tea. For the both of you."

Charlie exited the room, perhaps thinking he was subtle in 'giving those two creatures their alone time', Draco studied the man, who was scanning the cramped room with an edgy look in his eye. His skin was tanned, almost leathery; face aged and lined like a much older man's. He was tall and stooping, hunching his shoulders, wearing a battered black coat and a strange wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were dark and certain, and his moustache— curled at the ends, _styled with fucking gel, can you imagine?_

"Why you standing in the corner?" he asked in a low, hoarse voice. Draco jumped and stifled a yelp, reduced to feeling like a damned five-year-old. "Why you so scared?"

He tried to open his mouth and formulate a reply, he really did. But his voice wasn't working. The man sighed.

"Never you mind. I know why you do this. Come outside with me, the inside makes me have anxiety." Draco shook his head. Go outside? With this beast? He wasn't an idiot. The werewolf sat down on the small sofa; Draco stayed standing in his corner.

"You are afraid of me, I can see it. I can smell it. I see you and I say ok, I am not a scary guy. So that makes me believe you are afraid of those like you. Those like us," he said slowly, gazing out the window, shadows playing across his face. "I know why you are afraid, Draco. I was afraid when I met werewolf after… what I did. I was so so afraid. But then I realize… we are alike."

"I'm not like you," Draco whispered hoarsely, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest growing stronger.

"In all ways, no. We are not the same person, yes? But we did things that are the same, and we… we have the mark. For all time, we have the mark of this in our soul."

Draco bolted out of the toom. _Fuck this_, he repeated in his head, over and over, slamming the door shut and hiding under the blankets of his bed. _Fuck this fuck this fuck this, I don't want any of this_. He was breathing, deep gulping breaths that didn't seem to be calming him down. _Five, when I count to five I will be in my bed at home and mother and father will come wake me up and say it's all been a horrid dream…_

Five seconds came and went, then five minutes. Then a little longer, he didn't know. There was much murmuring and sighing outside the door, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping desperately to fall asleep or pass out or die, something, anything.

.................................................

"You have a family?" Nicolae asked, three days later. They were sitting in the parlour, Charlie calmly reading a newspaper, the werewolf drinking tea. Draco had been effectively bullied by Charlie into sitting on the sofa, tense and nearly nauseous.

"Yes," muttered Draco. Nicolae watched him expectantly for a few seconds, but then grimaced when he realized Draco wouldn't elaborate.

"I have family, you know. Big family!" he laughed, a bright gold tooth flashing from inside of his mouth. "My mama and grandmother! Yes, and my brother, Serghei, and my sister, Cantica! They do the most crazy things, and the most funny things. I laugh all day with them."

Charlie looked up from his newspaper. "It's true," he said, grinning. "I've met Serghei. He's mad as a hatter, but a hell of a laugh."

Nicolae nodded brightly, his dark features almost comical. "And you have a girl-friend, Draco?"

Draco felt his face redden. "No."

Nicolae smiled. "Someday, I promise you. I think when I first become werewolf, 'Now I will never get a woman, I am a monster, and ugly.'" Charlie began to laugh. "Charlie, why you laughing at me? I am ugly, but that is no reason to laugh, it makes me sad," he said, chuckling.

"And yes, I think this. And then I have… I do what I did, and I hated myself. But I meet Sofia then, and she did not hate me. She hate what I did, but not me." He grew quiet. "I have three boys, strong boys, and little girl."

Draco felt his throat close up.

"My children are what I live for, Draco. There is life after this. Life will be hard, but it is not so bad, I promise you."

His throat closed up a little; he could still have a family, have an heir like his parents want him to. Life could work, it could be all right, and he would be back with his mum and dad at the Manor before the fucking Dark Lord came and ruined everything. But it wasn't the Dark Lord showing up that ruined everything, was it? No, it was that dark night with scratching and kicking, and that horrible bite—

"Draco," said a gentle voice. He looked up.

"I'm tired. Sorry," he muttered, heading for his bedroom.

...........................................................

_Draco is barely fourteen. It is summer and he is at Pansy's, by her pool. She is laughing and chatting away about something stupid, Millicent has a crush on Theo and there's a gorgeous new robe at Malkin's and Blaise has gotten quite fit, hasn't he? Draco doesn't care much, because it's bloody hot out and his lemonade is delicious._

_Mother and Father are in France for the weekend, and they promised to bring him back new Quidditch gear. The World Cup is later this summer, too, for which Draco is monumentally excited. The only thing hampering this is the look of mild disapproval in Dad's eyes whenever Quidditch is mentioned. Not only has Draco still not beaten Potter, but Potter got a Firebolt._

"… _are you listening?" asks Pansy._

"_No, sorry Pans," he says, bored._

"_I _said_ that the Weird Sisters are going to be having a concert in Diagon Alley. My mum is offering to pay, do you want to go?"_

_Draco nods, and his thoughts drift again, to Quidditch and his parents, but he is brought back to the present again by Pansy's fingers stroking his arm._

"_Does it still hurt?" she asks, her sunglasses glinting in the bright sun._

_He grimaces. He milked that for all it was worth, and Pansy still buys the 'injured hero' bit. Truthfully, it had hurt like a bitch when the Hippogriff clawed him. He didn't even want to touch the thing, but he couldn't lose face, especially not in front of Potter. How humiliating: Draco Malfoy, afraid of beasts? Hippogriffs and centaurs, werewolves and dragons… even sodding unicorns gave him visions of being mauled in the gut by one of their horns. It was laughable and stupid, but he couldn't help it. Ever since he went to the Malfoy vault with mother one afternoon when he was about 10 and passed that horrible-looking dragon, he'd been afraid… it was really only flobberworms that he felt some sort of ease around, and those things were disgusting; who'd want to be around them anyway?_

"_Oh, poor Draco," sighs Pansy, and begins playing with his hair. He tenses; what on earth is she doing? She lifts her sunglasses and looks at him, her face suddenly very close to his own. Suddenly he knows that is about to happen, and he lets Pansy kiss him._

Not overly pleasant_, he thinks, _but it's a start._ He shifts in the chaise he was lounging on to allow Pansy more room, and kisses back._

..............................................

Nicolae and Draco had taken to walking together outside. Charlie's "house" was situated in a valley, surrounded by huge mountains and a large expanse of land. There were about three or four other houses in close proximity to them, and the village was a little ways off, at the foot of the mountain. Nicolae would bring him to the village, sometimes, but mostly they walked in the wilderness, down paths cutting through large fields that seemed to be everywhere. Nicolae would talk sometimes, and would try and goad Draco into speaking, too. Sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn't.

Draco found himself grudgingly growing used to the man. He was funny in a strange way, though his inflection was always somber. When Draco would talk it would be about his mother mostly, and Nicolae would listen patiently, nodding. Sometimes the man would ask odd questions, like _How does that make you feel? _and _Are you ready to talk about This? That? _and _How are the full moons for you?_

One day Nicolae told him about a job he used to have before anything bad happened, how he used to live in a city and went to Muggle clinics to talk to people. He said it was a profession, called a psycho-something, which alarmed Draco. Nicolae laughed and said it was common for Muggles, and that he was good at what he did. Draco asked what he did _now_, and the man seemed to grow grey.

"I am too sick now to help people. It is dangerous. Now I help my friend make candles." Draco pressed his lips tightly together, and looked at a knobby root sticking out of the ground.

...........................................................................

He starts talking to Charlie, too. The man has an easy air about him, and is utterly friendly and helpful. It's disconcerting at first, since he'd never really encountered this level of niceness with actual sincerity behind it, besides perhaps his parents. Occasionally. But he seems receptive to the very little that Draco has to say, and it's something Draco appreciates, though he'd never say so.

He thinks he remembers Charlie from somewhere, but can't quite place it. The man's slight obsession with Quidditch tugs at his memory, but Draco shrugs it off as his own notion of Quidditch being the Grand Weasley Obsession. Wasn't this one a captain for Gryffindor at one point? He can't be sure.

"So, how was your day?" asks Charlie, slumping in his chair, covered head to toe in some black substance. Draco assumes it's ash.

"How was yours?" he asks, staring at the table.

Charlie grins. "Fantastic, actually. We got this new male, an Ironbelly. Magnificent, he is. Davis—I've told you about Davis, he's the Australian bloke—named the poor thing Marvin, after those bloody Marvin Miggs the Mad Muggle comics. You ever read them? Anyway, the thing is six tonnes, and nearly crushed three people. Flattened this stray sheep, absolutely disgusting… oh, we feed the sheep to the dragons, have I mentioned? Stupid animals. Sheep, I mean, not the dragons. Anyway, everyone was so focused Marvin that one of the Chinese Fireballs nearly escaped. She nearly burned down a forest before we could put it out and reign her in. I got put on extinguishing duty, got to fly above the wood and cast _Aguamenti_ for nearly two hours. I know, I know, sounds really boring, but I haven't been on a broom in so long, it's always exhilarating. Ah, it was great!" he sighs happily. "So, what did you do today?"

Draco is taken off-guard. "Er... I… um. I read a few of your Quidditch magazines. And… slept." Charlie's buoyant expression seems to droop.

"Is that it?" he asks, and Draco nods. "God, that's all? I'll have to find something for you--"

"You have soot all over you," Draco says, cutting him off. Charlie looks at his arms, apparently noticing for the first time, and Draco takes the opportunity to leave and shut himself in his room.

.............................................................

So Charlie makes it his mission to entertain Draco. He buys more things to read; there are now two Quidditch magazine subscriptions being delivered to the house, along with _The Quibbler_, which Draco can't even bear to look knowing that the Lovegood girl was locked in his basement for months. Sometimes Potter's face is on the cover, and stares at Draco from the corner of the room; once it was Snape's scowling face on the cover, and Draco began to cry, quietly. He never read the article, instead choosing to carefully hide the newspaper under his mattress.

They listen to Quidditch on the wireless, and argue. Sometimes he makes Charlie laugh, which seems wrong, somehow. There'd been next-to-no laughter, especially not caused by him, in his life for the past year or so. Which had been shit, because he could have used a laugh. Hearing it now feels incorrect, like writing with the wrong hand. Charlie keeps on with the argument.

"Wimbourne? _Wimbourne?_ Are you absolutely mad? It's the Cannons this year. They've got Webster, and he's the best Keeper in the league!"

"What?" says Draco, feeling outraged. "Webster's on the Cannons? Ugh, well, Winbourne's had the best record, they had 12 wins--"

"They had 12 wins _last_ year, actually. They've only got 11 this year, and the Cannons… well, actually, the Cannons have only won 6, but…"

Draco is suddenly very angry and says something about being too busy to follow Quidditch, which is fucking _true_, and leaves the room, ignoring the nonplussed look on Weasley's stupid ginger face.

..........................................................

He was screaming, screaming, the scar from the bite on his shoulder throbbing. He opened his eyes, and his face was covered in tears, saliva, and snot. He stared at the figure ahead of him, ashamed and exhausted from this awful werewolf bullshit and the memories that are drudged up every time he transforms…

"What the fuck do you want?!" he shouts, and the figure turns and exits. Draco cries more and pulls the blanket around himself. When he calms down and goes to the kitchen table to sit down, Charlie dumps parchment, ink, and quills in front of him.

"_You_ can write to your parents this month," he grumbles. "Try to not be so… _loud_ next time, yeah? If you can't, I… fuck, sorry, I know this is tough for you, but I have to live in this bloody house, too, alright?" He doesn't wait for a reply, and leaves for the reserve, mumbling something about melodramatics. Draco sits at the table for a while, and sighs. He picks up a quill and begins the letter. His handwriting is shaky because he hasn't written anything in nearly a month, and mother always commented on whether or not his handwriting looked "proper" when they wrote to each other while he was at school. He figures "sod it", because last night he had fucking paws instead of hands, and what the fuck does she expect? He grits his teeth and wants to smash the quill on the fucking table, throw the ink all over the walls, burn the parchment until it's nothing but smoke. Instead, he dips the quill into the black liquid.

_My dearest mother,_ he begins. _I am doing as well as can be expected. I miss you and father terribly… please let me know how you two are faring, as well as my friends…_

..........................................

_Draco is fifteen, locked in a cupboard, all his hopes of future happiness being destroyed by Justin Finch-Fletchley's hand on his dick. And before he can lament this rather shit turn of events, he comes all over the boy's hand, shaking and moaning._

_A few long seconds of ragged, angry breathing ensues, and Draco suddenly feels embarrassed. The other boy has already come and has a slight layer of sweat on his upper lip, unsteady hands gripping Draco's arms like a vice._

"_Sorry," Draco mutters, using his wand to clean their hands and trousers. They adjust themselves, and Finch-Fletchley looks at him loathingly, as he always does after their stupid mutual wank sessions that feel more like a competition than… sex. Draco's never said anything before, but this time he's pissed off. Perhaps it's that it's Saturday, and that every Saturday Dad sends his letter, reminding Draco of Who He Is and What His Responsibilities Are. And Finch-Fletchley… how dare a Mudblood look at him like that?_

"_What?" Draco says angrily. Finch-Fletchley adjusts his ugly Hufflepuff tie and sneers, opening the door and sauntering into the deserted hallway. Draco follows him out, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair, attempting to regain his air of arrogance._

"_Fucking ponce," Finch-Fletchley hisses. Draco doesn't see the fist coming at all, and is taken by complete surprise when he finds himself on the floor with a bloody nose, the other boy stalking off. He can't find the strength in himself to get up._

_Father would be so disappointed. And Mother. Their son, supposed to be the picture of the Pureblood youth had just gotten wanked and subsequently beaten up by a male Hufflepuff Mudblood. This means three things:_

_1. Draco is weak._

_2. Draco is a ponce, and therefore will not have a Happy Pureblood Marriage like his parents, and thus will only marry to produce an heir. This will lead to a messy divorce, and to the Sullying of the Malfoy Name by Means of Poncery. And that is a fucking shit situation._

_3. Draco is a blood traitor. And of all the things to be, that's the most dangerous._

_Fuck._

........................................

"Wake up, Draco. We're going to go flying," a soft voice whispered in his ear, sending waves of pleasure down his spine in his half-asleep state. He groggily opened his eyes, but the sounds of footsteps were already roaming the house. Draco's hand began to bleed a little, the scabs cracking, and he frowned. He wished he had had the foresight to _not_ punch through the wall last night.

He grabbed a stray carrot from the refrigerator (a rather useful Muggle appliance, admittedly) and nibbled at it. Charlie came in and threw a fucking _broom_ at him, asking if he was a Seeker. Draco nodded, dumbfounded, and followed the man outside when beckoned. Charlie led him to a wide field that he and Nicolae had walked through on a number of occasions, and pulled a Snitch out of his pocket.

"Seeker's match," he said, grinning. "Most catches by noontime wins. 30-second grace period between each release. That all right?" Charlie smiled wickedly, an air of pleasant competition about him. Draco looked at him, really _looked_ at him for the first time, and blushed. Charlie's shoulders were broad and his arms were strong-looking, with several scars from scratches and burns. He wasn't tall and awkward like his younger brother, the one in Draco's year— he was only of average height and stocky build, but it suited him well. His face was pleasant and freckled, his mouth turned up in a crooked grin, and his red hair was unkempt, but not distastefully so. Draco felt himself reddening, and swallowed the inordinate amount of saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. He nodded and mounted his broom.

He zoomed above the field, the wind blowing his hair back. The broom responded to the little subtleties of his body as brooms always did, and it was glorious. When was the last time he flew? He couldn't remember, and he smiled, because this was fucking great and he missed flying like _hell_. He flew up to Weasley, who was staring at him unblinkingly. _Ha, yes,_ he thought. _I've astounded him with my flying abilities, he must be terrible._

"Ready to lose, Weasley?" he asked as Charlie grinned and took off. Draco went the opposite direction, and saw a flash of gold to his right. He smiled.

....................................

They ate dinner with Draco admitting Charlie was much better than he'd initially thought, as Draco had lost rather badly. They had played until lunch, and then Charlie had gone to work. Draco spent a few hours in the afternoon with Nicolae, and told him animatedly about the Seeker's match.

"I have not seen you this cheerful before," said Nicolae roughly. "It's very good. Very good." Draco lowered his head, but didn't disagree.

When he went to bed, he thought about flying, and felt like he was still up in the air even while laying down. Weightless. Light. The game had been so fucking great, and he had forgotten, for just a morning, about his fucking lycanthropy and how his parents were dealing with the Ministry, and what he had done to that man…

He mentally shook himself and turned to the side. He paused for a second, and then started touching his cock, hoping that it would react because Holy God he fucking _needed_ a wank, and if it didn't work now, it probably never would. To his great pleasure, his cock began to harden, so he spat in his hand and began to stroke himself. He tried to imagine a face to go along with the sensation: a girl, sucking him off? Nearly laughable. _Can't say I didn't try,_ he thought quickly, and he tried again. Finch-Fletchley? Fuck, no. A vision of Anthony Goldstein's arse flashed in his mind and he felt himself flushing, but suddenly a long-forgotten memory emerged. He was watching the Triwizard Tournament, Pansy sitting next to him and clutching his hand like she was trying to make fucking hand juice out of it. All the other Slytherins were here to jeer at Potter and watch him (hopefully) get crushed by a dragon, but the beasts were roaring and spurting fire, their horrible teeth gnashing. Draco eyed the chains keeping the creatures out of the stands; if those things broke, he would shit himself. Eaten by a dragon? No _fucking _way.

He scanned the rest of the stadium, until he saw the corner where the dragon keepers were standing by. There were about four men, keeping a close eye on the proceedings but cracking jokes intermittently. Draco watched them for the entire time, their calm in the face of this horror show calming him a little. And one of them was red-haired and broad shouldered and he was laughing—

Draco's moan was muffled by the pillow as he spilled all over himself and the sheets. His breathing was still laboured, and he felt so unbelievably excellent and terribly embarrassed at the same time that he couldn't care about anything.

He lay panting for a moment when it hit him: he just got off thinking about the man he was living with, an essential stranger who had taken him in out of kindness, and the brother of people who _hated_ him. He groaned and turned over, deciding that he'd just clean himself up tomorrow morning. Fuck it.

**.............................**

**A/N: Thank you for your (ridiculously large amount of) patience and wonderful reviews!! More to come soon, I promise c:**

**And thanks, as always, to my beta, Ferosh.**


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